


Phoenix Rising

by Macx



Series: Firewall [12]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Person of Interest (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, Finch/Reese slow build, M/M, Psychic Bond, Series, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should have been a normal mission. In and out, no sweat. But then Bond goes missing. For days. Q isn't really worried; his agent has always come back.<br/>But this time is different. He can feel it. Something bad has happened, something terrible, something that has never happened to Bond before. Q shouldn't really be worried, now should he? 007 is a phoenix, but this time... this time... Q has no idea why he feels it, why he <i>knows</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】凤凰崛起 for Macx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072064) by [Flash2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flash2017/pseuds/Flash2017)



“I’m not a field agent, the past notwithstanding”

Bill Tanner, Chief of Staff of MI6, looked at their head of Q branch, drawn between agreement and resignation. “We know that, Q. But we need you on site with your agent.”

Q sighed. “The moment Bond gets this close enough,” he held up his prototype that looked like a smartphone, “I can hack it.”

“Too many variables.”

“You think the satellite will fail?” he scoffed.

Tanner smiled. “No. But if intel is right, the target might have protection against unauthorized access.”

“Tanner, I’m not an agent,” the quartermaster repeated, his tone of voice changing to that of a parent talking to a stubborn child. “I’d be in the way!”

“007 is your agent. You are his handler.”

“Very good. We all know that. Now, what does that have to do with me being in the field?”

“The handler is where he needs to be.”

Q stared at him, refusing to be pushed into this when there was a perfectly good alternative.

“M’s orders.”

His face was a mask. “007 is perfectly capable of doing what needs to be done.”

“You have been with your agent before.”

“In the background, Tanner, not active and infiltrating a building.”

“This is too important to risk failure. Stop arguing, Q. You’re going.”

Q glared some more, just for good measure. “You are going to regret this.”

The Chief of Staff smiled thinly. “I already am.”

 

* * *

 

“This is a bad idea on so many levels!”

“But it makes sense.”

“Don’t. Just… don’t. Logic isn’t working, Bond!”

The agent in question watched Q as he packed the necessary equipment in a special case. It looked like a regular suitcase, but it wasn’t. Q branch had invested heavily into making an ordinary piece of luggage seem like nothing special while it contained explosives, weapons and maybe even fissionable material.

“M wouldn’t risk you for nothing, Q.”

Brown eyes blazed with fury.

Bond weathered the storm.

“I know they think I’m the perfect asset, but I’m not! I have no field training!”

“You’re not required to.”

Q snapped the case shut and hefted it off the table. “Exactly! I’m required to sit in an underground bunker and assess situations, guide an agent, dig up information the agent might need, and in my free time I run a whole branch and invent nifty new equipment! If I have to leave aforementioned bunker, it is to deliver equipment for a Double-Oh or assist in the background. Did you notice the difference? Not operating in the field, Bond, I work in the dark, in the shadows, and over a comm. line.”

The blue eyes of his partner crinkled a little around the corners in a half-smile that barely reached his lips. Bond was highly amused, which had Q want to… well, he would prefer not to get violent.

“You would find that funny,” he growled instead. “I’m a liability!”

“Hardly.”

“I’m not a field agent!”

Bond leaned closer. “You can handle a gun. You know when to duck. That’s all there is to know.”

“So every idiot can do it.”

“No. I need you, Q. You have the abilities. You’re the only technopath I know.”

“I’m the only sane one anyway. And that’s still debatable.” He glared at the suitcase, then at the Double-Oh.

His partner looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Q gritted his teeth. “It’s a bad idea.”

Mindful of the security feed and the possibility of one of Q’s minions walking in, Bond bumped his shoulder slightly against Q’s.

“Maybe, but it does make sense.”

And they were back where they had started out.

Q looked into the so familiar blue eyes, seeing past the hard edge, the ice, the ruthless creature hidden underneath such a very nice exterior. He saw the phoenix, the preternatural, and he saw Bond. It was one and the same man, but so different.

“Camera, Q,” Bond said and the quartermaster had only a second to scramble the signal technopathically before the agent leaned even closer and brushed their lips together.

It was a brief, teasing but still so warm contact. Bond didn’t withdraw, simply rested his forehead against Q’s.

“Is that how you convince all your reluctant helpers?” Q murmured.

“Hm, mostly.”

“And it works?”

“Always.”

He chuckled. “You are so full of yourself, 007.”

Bond’s hand was caressing Q’s side and he found himself relaxing.

“It’ll be a nightmare,” the quartermaster repeated and drew back.

Bond smiled lop-sidedly. “Welcome to my world.”

“Exactly. It’s your world, not mine.”

“You share my world all the time. And we’ve been in the field together.”

“Never like this. I don’t have the training.”

“You do. This case is right up your alley, Q. We need someone with your skills right there, not across the Atlantic. You were briefed on the details.”

Q sighed. Yes, he was. And he knew M was right, that he had called it the way it was: they needed a top-notch hacker in form of a technopath.

Damn.

 

* * *

 

::This is a nightmare::

James Bond looked around the room filled with people in evening gowns and tuxedos. Important people. Rich people. People who had the right connections to be here.

And among the crowd was a figure in a black tuxedo, holding on to a glass of champagne and looking like he wanted to be very, very far from here. Bond let his eyes briefly run over the slender man, admiring the view. Q looked… smooth. Suave. He wore the tux nicely.

::Don’t look so surprised:: the quartermaster muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Bond asked, masking his question by taking a sip from his own champagne.

::Even we egg heads from Q branch can clean up nicely::

“You always look nice, Q.”

::I bet you say that to all your psychically linked handlers::

“I’m monogamous, Q.”

::Since when?:: he teased, though he wasn’t serious.

“There’s only room for one geek in my soul.”

Q was silent and he could almost feel the eyes on him, burning an invisible hole into his back. He tried to push the warmth away, but it was hard. In the past two months things had intensified. Ever since New York they were so much closer. Bond had finally told his partner how he felt, and it had been the truth. Nothing but the truth.

He loved him.

Bond walked through the crowd, lithe and dangerous, prowling, keeping an eye on matters. Actually he was keeping an eye not only on Q, but everything. He had seen his partner arrive five minutes ago, handing his woolen coat over at the reception and joining the other guests.

Q was technopathically linked to the comm patch and the special ear piece he had designed for the Double-Oh agent. The frequency was only known to him and he used the prototype to work on his technopathy, as well as keep in contact with Bond without anyone being able to tell who he was talking to.

And Q did look nice. Always. He might not run around MI6 in a suit and tie – the tie was there, though – but the way he dressed was very much him. The cardigans, the sweaters with the block colors, the vests, together with striped or checkered or uni-color pants.

::Running through the lines again, 007?:: the younger man finally asked, voice even, not betraying his thoughts.

“Not a line. The truth.”

People were milling, talking to each other, some trying hors d’oeuvres, some refilling drinks. All around them the gallery was showing the recent works of an up and coming artist. Neither Q nor Bond had an interest in his work.

::Get working:: Q only said.

“Already am. Just be ready.”

::I am. I’m not here to just stand around, chat and be bored::

“You also look good,” Bond purred, then cut the comm. line as he homed in on his target.

 

 

Across the room, Q emptied his champagne glass, refusing to be baited.

Bastard, was all he thought, but without fervor.

Bond was doing his job and so would Q.

 

 

In the end Tanner had been correct in sending Q in as well. Their target was very good, was knowledgeable when it came to countersecurity measures against hackers, and if he hadn’t been there, he might have lost the connection more than once.

Not that Q would tell Tanner that in those words.

They acquired the code, Bond had to take out a few goons, business as usual.

Bond’s expression was knowing when they were on the flight home.

“Enjoyed yourself?” he murmured, sipping at his cocktail.

He didn’t deign the question with an answer. James interlaced their fingers throughout take-off, squeezing his hand.

Q closed his eyes, automatically anchored himself within the dark presence of the phoenix, and shielded his mind against trying to log into the plane’s electronic network.

Bond’s thumb brushed over his hand, reassuring, calm, strong.

 

 

They were home ten hours later, touching down in London without a problem. A limousine, MI6 edition, was waiting for them and Q, tired and jet-lagged, slid into the back. He closed his eyes, a light pressure behind them, as strong fingers briefly curled around his wrist.

The pressure eased.

“Tired?”

“No,” he muttered. “Dead on my feet.”

Bond smiled.

The limousine stopped in front of Q’s place and he was surprised that they hadn’t been carted off to M for a debrief.

“We have until tomorrow,” Bond told him when he got out.

“Oh.”

He walked into the elevator like on automatic and when he was finally in his flat, he fell face first onto the bed.

 

* * *

 

When James Bond went silent and dark, Q didn’t really think much of it. He made a note in his log and kept an eye or two on the possible reappearance of his agent. He felt no alarm at all. Double-Ohs, and most especially Bond, had to go deep sometimes. They had to shed every form of surveillance, be it on them or sometimes in them, to stay undetected. Not even facial recognition software would be able to find him then.

At least until they wanted to be found.

Yes, he was that good.

Bond had a tendency to go under and reappear as if nothing had ever happened, as if he hadn’t been out of contact, and Q would take it in stride.

He always did.

It made them such a good pairing as handler and agent.

It also had nothing to do with the more intimate relationship, the psychic bond between them, and the fact that the preternatural side of Bond was bound to Q. Yes, he was keeping the other man sane. Yes, Bond was the technopath’s anchor. Yes, they did share more than that. Bodily fluids, beds and living space.

But on the job they were professionals.

Half of MI6 already suspected that the two men were a couple, in a relationship, more than just fuck buddies. The other half was scoffing at the very idea that a man like Bond could be interested in more than a one-night-stand with the head of Q branch.

Q wasn’t sure if he should really take offense at that. They did make an unlikely pair and he had been aware of it from the beginning. That James Bond took whoever he liked to bed, man and woman alike, was a known factor. That he flirted with everyone, especially those he needed to gain something, was also a given. It was just Q who stood out. Q was his quartermaster, his only handler. He already gave him all the toys and he safely brought him in and out of an operation.

So why?

Q was amused by the grapevine. He sometimes had to hold back a laugh at the speculations, especially when it came to dominance and submission. Or sexual prowess. Or appearances. He almost blushed one day when he caught the back end of a heated discussion in the break room. A woman, who could be his mother, argued that he was ‘cute’, that someone had to be blind no to see what a catch he was. Another pointed out that they were right and Bond and Q had been together for a while now, looks weren’t everything.

“But it doesn’t hurt that he isn’t hard on the eyes,” the first one said.

Then there was giggles.

Q sighed.

The employees of MI6 should really be more careful when it came to conversations over social media and internal emails. As quartermaster, Q had access to a lot. As a technopath, he had access to all.

Right now he simply did his job. He read through reports, signed applications, went over the dozen or more new and complete gadgets from Research and Development, signed off on more proposals for new and improved offensive and defensive tech, and of course reviewed and logged mission reports. It was always a good idea to stay on top of field performance of his technology and equipment as reported by other agents.

 

 

Three days into the continued silence from Bond’s end, M asked for a meeting.

“Do you know where he is?” the head of MI6 asked bluntly.

“No, sir. He went silent and dark.”

“I know that, Q. It’s in all the reports. I also noticed the lack of updates from 007.”

Q kept a neutral expression.

“The last came from some obscure location in Kazakhstan.”

“Yes.”

“And he went dark.”

“Yes.”

Mallory sighed. “I know Bond has a knack for disappearing, but I had hoped he would at least give you some life sign.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “It would be risky, sir.”

Mallory mimicked the eyebrow.

Q relented with a shrug. “I didn’t get anything.”

Not through official channels. Not through unofficial ones. Not through technopathic means. Bond was… gone.

“Is he alive?” M asked, voice even and straight-forward.

“I would hope so.”

The older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany table top. “I’m not asking your opinion as MI6’s quartermaster and 007’s handler, Q. I’m asking as someone who is linked to him; bonded.”

Q blinked, biting back on the brief moment of panic. He had never mentioned just how deeply he felt connected to Bond to anyone, let alone written it down anywhere. He hadn’t reported back on the strengthening bond. And he was sure Bond wouldn’t say a word of it either, even under torture.

This was private.

It was theirs.

And nothing could be proven.

“Sir?”

“Q.”

M knew. Q suddenly realized that their boss knew a lot more than he let on, through whatever channels he had found out. How he could have ever guessed this was beyond him, but he knew.

The quartermaster fought to maintain his professional façade and not panic at the idea of M knowing how close he and Bond had become. There was no such nonsense as the fraternization rule at MI6 and everyone knew that agents rarely found a permanent relationship within their own ranks, least of all a Double-Oh like Bond. He was notorious for his one-night stands and changing bed partners.

But Q had changed this.

Q was a permanent fixture in his private life who didn’t influence his work. There was no jealousy, there was no anger at Bond’s continued flirting and bedding of women and men on the job. Q accepted that this was needed and he knew it, too.

Nothing could ever compare to what he and James shared, what they were for each other.

And he wasn’t an insecure person either. He knew who and what he was to Bond. He knew what Bond was to him. It was this firmly lodged shard of knowledge in his soul, this presence of the phoenix, this immovable fact.

Now M knew.

“He’s alive,” the quartermaster finally said, proud to hear his voice was calm, even, professional.

M cocked his head a little, then nodded, though his expression was intense and not the least bit relaxed at the reassurance.

“Alright.”

“Will that be all?”

It got him a brief smile. “That will be all.”

Q turned and walked out of the office with measured steps. Only when he was back in his own department did he allow his stiff posture to relax a little.

M knew.

Crap.


	2. Chapter 2

::How bad would his theoretical knowledge of your furthering connection be?::

Q leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling. It was silent and almost dark in Q branch, it being the middle of the night, close to two a.m., and all non-relevant personnel had long since gone home. The few night owls were handlers or specialists who were needed for a particular mission, but the nine-to-five office workers were home.

Right now he was alone. Completely.

And even if there had been someone there, the conversation wasn’t audible for prying ears. There were advantages to being a technopath.

::I don’t know:: he now sighed, still studying the white-washed, curving brick ceiling. ::It’s just… Bond is someone very special. In so many ways. The fact that he is a phoenix is beyond top secret and eyes-only. Our connection is right there with it. Now we…::

::You evolved, Q::

Harold Finch sounded calm and composed, maybe a little amused. Ever since the werewolf incident that had MI6 cooperate with the CIA, Q and Finch had become the preternatural version of email buddies. They talked, exchanged information that was deemed safe for them both, and sometimes bounced ideas off the other. Finch was a challenging man for Q and he enjoyed their conversations. Especially when it came to programming and codes.

Finch was a cipher, a preternatural that could be seen as a variation of a technopath. Where Q was able to access all things electronic or technological, Finch was a superb code-writer, able to create something unique that only he could ever understand, because of his abilities. Q was convinced the man was capable of a lot more, that he could use The Machine in ways no one would ever be able to track, but Finch was reluctant to dive so deeply into what he was.

Maybe with the slowly developing relationship between him and Reese would come a trust that only John Reese could inspire. Q had called Reese a connector and that was what Finch needed. Not an anchor, because he wasn’t that strong, but someone he trusted, someone he could rely on to be there should he falter. For a technopath there was only one anchor, for a cipher, anyone he trusted could be a connector.

Too bad that Harold had a lot of trust issues.

Enter John Reese. Q was convinced they were getting where they needed to be, emotionally, physically and preternaturally. It just took time.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts.

::Yes, we evolved and there is nothing I can use for reference, Finch. It’s… annoying.::

The soft chuckle had him smile in turn. ::Tell me about it::

Ah. Those four words were more revealing than an amateur youtube video.

::Considering that so few people know about you and 007, it might prove vital one day that one of them knows how both of you are influenced by the connection you share:: Finch stated reasonable. ::He is also your boss, someone who has kept this secret a secret, and someone who leaves you a lot of freedom::

Too true.

Q sighed and played with one of his pens. ::Yes:: he reluctantly agreed. ::Quite possible the best outcome::

::Any contact?:: Finch asked calmly.

::No. It’s hardly alarming::

::Have you run your own search?::

::Again, no. I might be 007’s only handler, but I have a job outside of baby-sitting him:: the quartermaster replied evenly. ::I can’t while away my day going through a myriad of images in the hope of finding a pixel of him. If he has to hide, he has his reasons::

Finch chuckled again. ::And you are running automated programs anyway::

Q refused to blush, caught. ::Well, yes::

Their conversation then turned to something Finch and Reese had been working on, finally ending around 3 a.m. Q packed his things and went home, the streets silent and dark, barely a soul outside.

He came into an empty flat, but it didn’t really bother him. He had never needed a constant presence physically there for him. That Bond tended to drift into his place – their place – was normal. He kept his own place for appearances and to store his own belongings, but he slept and ate and actually lived with Q.

It was… normal. Never routine, because nothing with James Bond was routine. But it was nice. It was casual and still permanent. It was solely between them.

Q dropped his keys in the bowl, hung up his coat, switched on the lights – muted – and checked his network. Nothing new, no important emails, and the usual blogs and chats held no interest. He nuked leftovers from the night before and had a very late – or early – dinner. It was almost four when he finally crashed. Tomorrow was Saturday and he wouldn’t be required to come in.

He would go anyway since there was nothing else to do right now, but not before he had caught up on some sleep.

 

*

 

Q arrived at MI6 around eleven, freshly shaved and showered. He was looking through reports, checking new coding, sorting through a dozen applications for new or improved weaponry, and writing a few comments in emails to those developers who had finished their projects.

Part of him was inside the MI6 network, listening in on the handlers currently in contact with their agents or looking at his network and deciding if he needed to run an unplanned security sweep.

Routine.

Keeping him busy.

There was nothing else to do right now.

The routine was interrupted around four in the afternoon when 002 called in and required assistance. Q took the call, handled it calmly and professionally, and routed the required resources. He cracked a not too complicated security code for the Double-Oh and arranged a quick getaway.

002 shot him a quick ‘thank you’ through the ether before he switched off his comm. Q only smiled.

_My pleasure_ , he thought.

And he refused to worry about his own agent.

 

* * *

 

The Double-Ohs kept appearing in Q branch more and more within the next thirty-six hours. 004 was the first to drop by and hand over her gun and gadgets. Q checked everything and gave her a brief nod, which she answered with a smile.

“Any word from your partner?” she asked casually.

“No.”

“Well, sounds just like Bond. He likes to go under.”

Q raised an eyebrow.

004 leaned in closer. She was a beautiful woman. Beautiful and deadly, like a giant cat, like a poisonous snake, and like all her Double-Oh colleagues she could easily prove that it wasn’t just looks.

Now she was smiling warmly. It wasn’t playfully intimate, but intimate nevertheless. Her green eyes were filled with something Q refused to interpret as caring and worried. Double-Ohs didn’t worry about the head of Q branch, only themselves, their missions, maybe their handlers.

“He hasn’t displayed that particular talent in a while. About a year, I’d say.” She winked.

Q refused to fall for it. 

He logged in 004’s weaponry and comm. device, then looked up.

“Anything I can do for you, 004?”

“Lunch?” she offered pleasantly.

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“You. Me. Lunch.”

Another blink. Confusion raced through him. “Lunch?”

“And here he said you were one of the brightest kids in this office,” she sighed. “Lunch. Food. They have chicken today. There’s also a very nice Italian place that delivers.”

“Uhm…”

004 smiled brightly, not the least bit offended by his hesitation. “Think about it. I know for a fact that 001 is coming back today and he still owes me lunch. Come join us if you want.”

Q watched her walk out of Q branch, still confused.

It didn’t help that 008 called in not much later, making small talk as he waited for a program to run. He talked sports, TV programs and favorite movies, then Q led him easily through the removal of a valuable hard drive from a captured laptop, circumventing the self-destruct.

It was a change in his routine and aside from watching things blow up in the experimental labs, the most interesting part of the day.

“Got it,” 008 said and the smile was audible. “Thanks, Q.”

“Any time, 008. Be safe.”

 

 

Lunch came and went. Q stayed at the shooting range and tried out a few long-range rifles, feeling rather good afterwards. 001 appeared after his first hour of testing new weaponry, looking impressed and just slightly itchy to try out the new rifles himself. Unlike Bond though, he was able to show restraint.

Q wasn’t without mercy – unless it came to Bond, who was a nightmare and didn’t deserve sneak peeks. He pushed off the ear protection as he walked over to where 001 hovered.

“Welcome home, 001,” he greeted the man.

It got him a bright smile. “Thanks. Should have stayed away, though. 004 made me pay for lunch.”

Q smiled a little to himself. “So I heard.”

He quickly checked the Double-Oh’s schedule and found that he had already been to see M and Tanner for debriefing. So he held out the latest of toys to 001.

The agent raised his eyebrows. “Is it my birthday?”

“Not for another 97 days.”

It got Q a laugh. “Of course you would know.”

Q raised an eyebrow. 001 took the rifle and checked it, making appreciative noises as Q explained the basics.

Then he went on the shooting range.

 

*

 

When Q returned to his work desk he found a plastic bag from an Italian restaurant with the catching name Italo. Inside was lunch, with a note tagged to it.

‘Someone has to keep you fed. 004.’

He smiled and sat down, strangely touched.

It was also very good pasta Alfredo style.


	3. Chapter 3

If this had been a movie or a book, some kind of adventure or romance novel, Q would have woken in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, blurting out Bond’s name. He would have stared sightlessly at the white wall, trying to find a trace of his bonded partner, trying to pick up anything from the psychic link they shared.

But it wasn’t a book or a movie.

And the connection didn’t work that way.

Yes, he felt the phoenix in a way, as a solid fact of his life, of his very soul, but it was neither empathy nor telepathy. It was just there. Irremovable. A fact. Solid and real.

No, he didn’t feel anything tear inside him, break apart only to rise and screech a challenge to death.

It was more like a sudden loss of blood pressure. It was the room moving while Q was standing still. It was like… like waking up with a fever and unable to function. All wrapped in a microsecond, all leaving him pale and with blown pupils, locking his knees, refusing to fall.

And of course it didn’t happen at home; private, only him. It happened while he was talking to Tanner about… about…

He didn’t know any more.

All Q knew was that he was forced into a chair, a glass of water was pushed into his hands, and Tanner was talking quietly in the background. Not to him; no, not to him.

M, his brain told him, piggy-backing on the call like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was. He was a bloody technopath. He could do this in his sleep.

They were in Tanner’s office at MI6, private but no private enough for Q. No one else had been witness to his… breakdown? No, not a breakdown. This was something else.

“Q?”

The voice was sharp, commanding, drawing his attention away from his analysis of what had happened. Tanner stared at him, face set, hard, as commanding as his voice.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replied automatically.

“Then make an educated guess,” was the order.

“007,” he muttered.

Because there was… something wrong. Because the solid fact was no longer so present. Something had happened to Bond and it had been violent and sudden and probably fatal. Q had never experienced anything like it and only once before had he felt his partner’s temporary death. That had been in New York and an insane werewolf had taken him out. The phoenix had recovered rather quickly and Q was still looking into that, confused and slightly terrified by the fact that Bond was resurrecting faster than before.

Before… before their bond had strengthened.

So much had happened.

“Q!” Fingers snapped sharply in front of his eyes.

He looked at Tanner, annoyance flitting through him, and from the humorless smile it was quite visible. It also had Tanner relax.

“M has been informed. We have his last location and are sending out a recon team. Just in case.”

“He might not be there anymore.”

“I’m quite aware of it. Any clue?”

“We’re not telepathically linked,” Q snapped, annoyance surging once more.

“I’m quite aware of that as well. I also know that you never reacted like this before, Q. Something happened and it was different to other times.”

“He died, Tanner. That’s all I know.”

“Differently.”

Q jerked a nod. He had no idea what else had happened. It had been different. It had been unprecedented.

In a way it worried him. And deep down inside it was… frightening as well.

 

*

 

It didn’t come as much of a surprise that there was no trace of 007 at the last known location, nor did anyone find anything that might tell them where he had gone off to. Talking to the locals was difficult. They were either too frightened or too indifferent to answer any questions, and the few who did answer couldn’t be trusted. Or they knew nothing.

It didn’t stop Q, though. He went into the system, searched through security feeds, satellite images, phone conversations and emails.

Nothing.

Well, close to nothing. He found traces of his partner, saw images of him, grainy and barely recognizable, but it was his agent. He knew it.

Until he walked into a warehouse building and disappeared. No one came out, no one else entered.

Q sat back, staring at the badly grained image, then sent his intel out to M.

 

 

Ten hours later they got information back from the crew on location. There was a tunnel underneath the building, a whole maze, and that was where Bond had disappeared into.

And he had gone invisible.

 

*

 

The knowledge that James had died still sat heavily in Q’s soul. It was only the second time he had felt his partner perish, but back in New York it had been like a brief, sharp pull. Now it was this solid weight; not the familiar one that told him of their connection but the missing piece that was James Bond.

He was dead.

Still.

Q was more worried by that than the circumstances that had killed him.

Resurrection took its time, but not days. Never days. At least not before.

He went to work, performed his job as neat and professional as always, but he knew he was under close observation. Tanner kept coming into Q branch, which wasn’t unusual, but the frequency of his visits was tell-tale.

The news that 007 was probably in a world of trouble had his underlings cast not-so-hidden looks at him. Some even offered to assist on one another’s project, just to take some of the load off Q. It was admirable, it was strangely nice, but work helped.

Work and the firm knowledge that as a phoenix James Bond should be able to resurrect.

Should be able…

He squashed the very idea that something had happened that not even his phoenix could come back from.

What would have to happen to James’ body to annihilate him completely? Q had never wanted to ponder that gruesome aspect of Bond’s preternatural abilities.

Now he might have to.

Though right now he simply kept on hoping.

 

 

There was nothing accidental about the increased presence of Double-Ohs in Q branch. Or that Q’s assistance was requested by those agents abroad.

004 was currently in Australia and her handler had patched her through when she ran into a tight corner concerning a delicate piece of hardware that was secured by a nifty piece of software.

001 was still at MI6 and awaiting a new mission, so he spent his time playing with Q branch’s rifles and guns, showing Q a few tricks on the range.

Neither those two, nor any of the others, tried any kind of pep talk. The Double-Ohs knew the chances of survival were sometimes slim, even if Bond usually beat the odds. And they knew that Q was very invested in their health and survival, but was especially interested in Bond’s

“Even if the rest of MI6 can’t wrap their collective heads around it, we know you two are an item,” 004 told Q one late evening as she shared a pizza with the quartermaster after her return.

She had come in like there was nothing strange about a beautiful, female agent playing delivery boy. 004 had set down the cardboard box, then pulled up a chair, kicked up her feet and started on her slice.

Q had been amused and touched.

“And hell, it’s good for him. You’re good for him,” she went on. “What we are precludes any kind of normal life, Q. We know he tried. Heck, I tried. Didn’t work.” She didn’t elaborate on it, but Q knew what she was getting at. He knew all Double-Ohs’ files. “So you and him? Best for him, best for you.”

“So you’re saying I’m making him a better man?” he teased, face carefully blank.

004 broke out in laughter, eyes alight. “Maybe,” she chuckled. “Maybe you really are. I know he’s a tough old dog. He’s the best there is and I’ve worked with him once. He’s brilliant. Terrifying as well. We’re all killers, but him?”

Q nodded. She might suspect he was a preternatural, but no one had a clue as to what kind. No one knew just how much death and violence was in his blood, his whole being, his very soul.

“If anyone can make it back, it’s him,” 004 added, then finished off another slice.

Yes, it would be Bond. Only him.

If it hadn’t been for the sudden shift, for the sensation he had felt, he might not be so nervous about this time.

Something had been different. Something had happened.

 

 

The Double-Ohs kept calling him, asking for help, though their own handlers would be perfectly capable of doing what Q was asked to do.

He didn’t call them on it, even if he was aware of their plotting. It was… nice. It was a distraction, and sometimes the chats continued even after the initial task was over. He kept 002 company throughout a stake-out which yielded nothing come daylight, and 004 continued ordering take-out from Italo for him.

He was never not busy, until he went home.

 

* * *

 

It persisted, this feeling of death and loss. It was with him 24/7 and whenever he was at home, alone, not occupied with work, he wondered if this was what would and could happen one day. If this was what it would be like if he ever lost…

Q pushed those thoughts out of his head, pushed himself into the net, spent the nights roaming around the world wide web, looking, hunting, searching. He concentrated on the last known location – Almaty, Kazakhstan – and set up his own search grid.

It helped. Work always helped.

Still… it also hurt.

He refused to give up. Q knew Bond wasn’t dead. His partner was alive, was recovering somewhere. The phoenix was too hard to kill, too dark to perish like that. It clung to life with a fierceness that was unparalleled by anything else. Werewolves were hard to kill, just like vampires, but death was final for them. Not for the phoenix. It wasn’t like any other preternatural.

M believed him and wouldn’t declare 007 dead, just MIA. It had happened before and it would probably happen again.

If Bond was laying low, he had to have a reason. If he had been killed and was recovering, he was hiding until he was fit enough to be picked up.

_Where are you?_ Q wondered, not for the first time. _What happened to you?_


	4. Chapter 4

Life went on like this for three days. Three long, harrying days. Three days in which Q was functioning more and more on automatic. He went to work, he logged into the system, he did his regular job and he hunted for his partner. His headaches grew, his vision became blurry by the end of the day, and it was a chore to get home in one piece, without running into a car, a pedestrian, a wall.

His team was watching him with eagle eyes. In the beginning he wasn’t really aware of how they slowly took work away from him, lightened his load. Charles, his second in command, was delegating work, accepted more responsibility, even though the head of Q branch was physically there to theoretically do his work. His mug was never empty and he found food on his desk.

Still, he didn’t find a single trace of James.

Until the third day. There was something that could only be described as a shiver racing through him. Brief, with no lingering effects, but it had been there.

Q stilled in his work, confused, trying to catch that sensation again.

It was gone.

But for some reason it was a relief. Somehow it was a life sign.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

James is alive, he thought. He’s alive.

And still it was painful.

 

* * *

 

::I did some research:: Finch said that evening. ::You might be correct that you have changed the way you connected to one another. You and Mr. Bond have been under some stress lately. You were severely injured, then Bond was killed by Kara Stanton. Those events might have triggered this… closeness you feel::

Q silently chewed on his lip. He was lying back on the couch, gazing at the ceiling.

::And then there is the fact that you actually died, Q:: Finch added calmly.

Yes, that.

::You came back against all odds::

He sighed. ::I haven’t really wanted to think about the implications:: he confessed.

::You might have to. The phoenix relies on you as its balance. It’s a very deep connection you allowed it to have::

::Allowed?::

Finch chuckled. ::I believe the author of the book I found said that had you refused, the phoenix wouldn’t have been able to take what it wanted. You made the first step, Q, not Bond. You allowed him in. You allowed him to shake off his chains and soar. You anchored yourself, but you balanced him. That you turned out to be his balancing counterpart was luck::

Q frowned. ::Book?::

Finch sounded amused. ::Nothing that has been digitalized yet. The first edition of Marks of Preternatural Times. Very old and very… fantastic in some regards. Mr. Reese got a good laugh out of the cerberus section::

Q laughed softly. ::And there is something on the phoenix?::

::Yes. I’ll see if I can give you a good digital rendition soon. It’s a rather delicate book, old and brittle. I didn’t even realize I still had it. What it does talk about is that the phoenix grows stronger with each resurrection and unless balanced and able to focus on its own anchor, it one day tears apart the human soul. It is a truly vicious circle. Such a powerful preternatural is chained down by its own gain in strength, then one day surrenders to the energy inside him; it’s what brings him back and finally kills him because the human body can’t take it any more. And in a way the preternatural mind can’t either. The phoenix needs a partner strong enough to control it. If anchored, it will grow stronger, too, but in a different way. You almost literally have the phoenix’s claws in your soul, Q::

Yes, he had noticed that already. This wasn’t simply a bond that might be cut through with a knife. It was a complicated web that bound them together.

::I know:: he said softly.

::And since Mr. Bond is so very much aware of you, you can touch him, too. What you felt might have been his death and his resurrection::

::I’m frightened by the long time period between both sensations, Finch:: he confessed, voice soft, filled with the worry and fear he still experienced.

::Yes, that is… terrifying.::

::Anything on that in your book?:: he wondered aloud.

::Only speculations on the balanced phoenix::

Q sat up. ::Which are?::

::The author never met a phoenix, Q. They are very much myths, even today. He only published what he heard in old wives tales, campfire spook stories and read in even older books::

::Finch. Spill it::

::Theoretically a phoenix should be able to come back after almost any kind of death. A balanced phoenix might always come back::

Q froze, mouth hanging open. He worked his jaw, but only a wheeze came out.

::There is mention that the dark soul that brings back the human body won’t consume the mind because of the balance:: Finch went on, voice even, calm and serious. ::It is food for thought. If what you feel is any indication, Mr. Bond perished terribly, probably in a way that took such a long time to recover::

::Crap:: Q only managed.

::Quite appropriate::

Q’s mind was racing. Of course, it was all just speculation due to the rare nature and the fact that no living phoenix had ever been directly interviewed. There were dozens of names in every book as to who might have been a phoenix. Nothing had ever been proven.

And Bond had no idea what he was capable of either.

::Q?::

::I… That’s… rather hard to… digest…::

::I believe so, too. If it’s true::

He closed his eyes, feeling his headache strengthen. ::Thank you, Finch:: he murmured.

::Call when you need to, Q:. was the soft offer.

And he would. But right now he logged off, feeling some relief as the pressure behind his eyes eased.

Was it possible? Could a phoenix come back from more than poisonings, bullet wounds, torn out throats? What if the body was torn to pieces? What if there were only bones left?

Q swallowed, pushing the thoughts away. He couldn’t think about that right now because it called up images of James and he didn’t want to connect them.

But if a phoenix was capable to defying even such odds… if it clawed its way back to life… because it was balanced and soaring and free, realizing its full powers without the drawback of losing its mind and soul…

“Crap,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

Q’s flat didn’t look like that of a typical nerd. It didn’t really spell ‘computer geek’ the moment you entered. It was dark hardwood floors, white walls, comfortable furniture and high windows. He had landscape photography on the walls, but there weren’t myriads of computer parts littering every flat surface, nor dozens of laptops, netbooks or tablets.

Located strategically near the new MI6 and close to all amenities he might consider needing, the place was a model of security and functionality, and also a bit bigger than a single man should need it to be. Q had made sure he was safe here, that no one could simply break in and take what they wanted. Only he and Bond had the key code to the door, which was also secured with biometric scanners. It wouldn’t do to just copy Q’s or Bond’s fingerprints either.

Because of that, and because Q was technopathically linked to his private network, knew who came and went, had a direct line into the discrete security cameras all over the building and outside, he usually knew who came to visit. Mail, delivery, a neighbor. Or Bond.

Well, if his partner didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be – and Q had no idea how he moved like the proverbial invisible man.

So sometimes it came as a surprise.

Like right now.

More like a shock, actually.

“Shit,” Q whispered, staring at the blond man. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Not exactly a warm welcome, but it was the first and only thing that ran through his head.

James Bond was back. In one piece.

Mostly.

Well, everything was there, Q thought faintly. Two arms, two legs, all ten fingers, hopefully all toes. His eyes, his ears, nose and mouth. Nothing missing.

But the signs were there as well.

Massive signs that something terrible had happened.

Something fatal.

And somehow Bond had still made it here. Back home.

The ruggedly handsome face showed scarring on one side. Scars that were healing and fading and must have been a terrible, terrible wound… how long ago? When had Bond died so violently? And why did it look like a burn scar?

His hands… the same. Burn scars. Running up his forearms.

Q didn’t really want to contemplate what was hidden underneath the surprisingly clean and fitting clothes. Leisurely clothes, yes, but ones that hadn’t been pulled out of a garbage bin.

Maybe Bond had broken into a second-hand-store or taken them from a store, Q thought, feeling disconnected from reality.

But that was secondary, though his overwhelmed mind was still pondering it.

What was primary was the fact that James Bond, his missing agent and partner, was in Q’s flat, alive, showing severe signs of a very violent rebirth… and so many things were off with his appearance that went beyond the clothes.

He looked… different. Q had no other word for it. Not the way he had after they had finally found their balance, when the phoenix had latched onto Q as its counterpart and soared from there.

No.

This was… real. This wasn’t a smoothing of lines and more life in the blue eyes, more spirit, more… everything.

This was physical. Not too much time, but something had removed at least five to six years. Q recalled the image he had seen on his file, the first day working for the Double-Oh section. That was him.

“Bond?” he asked.

The wintery eyes were on him, sharp and somehow alien. They showed a clear sheen of silver. There was the phoenix and not much else. It was the predator, sizing up its prey, deciding whether to attack or ignore.

Q felt no fear.

Bond had never hurt him and he was convinced he never would. He was probably the only living, breathing being in the world who could look the phoenix in the eyes and not run screaming in terror at the violence and blood and death the gaze promised.

“007? James?”

It got him a blink. Then Bond moved, lithe, soundless, each movement measured, the trained body showing even throughout the recovery. He was suddenly right there, those inhuman eyes tracking over Q’s features.

Q didn’t step back. He simply faced the primal thing that had taken a hold of Bond, challenged it as he did on a daily basis, refusing to submit. He never submitted. He wasn’t that kind of person and it was what made them so perfect together. He met the dominant predator and put it back into its place without endangering its alpha status. He walked a fine line along a razor-sharp edge, and he did it without a safety net.

Up close he saw the smooth skin that had already healed. Not a scar on it. Then there was the patch of fading burns that must have been a lot worse. He reached out without truly thinking about it, sliding explorative fingers across the jaw line, marveling at the warmth and life.

The sharp eyes watched him, then suddenly closed and Bond leaned into the caress. A soft sigh escaped his lips and Q smiled to himself.

“James?”

It got him a wordless rumble.

“I’m not going to ask how you got back and when, or what happened,” Q said softly. “I only ask that you to let me see what happened to you.”

The pale blue eyes snapped open, dangerous and fiery within their icy depths. Q weathered the storm, let it wash over him. He was the rock in the stormy sea, not the little lifeboat about to be turned over and sink. He wouldn’t be pushed away.

“Please.”

Q kept up the caress of the smooth features, the younger features, a man who looked like the day he had become the agent with the license to kill. Years ago, when M had hand-picked him for this special department.

Before that fateful mission in Venice.

Something terrifying had happened to Bond and it had resulted in this…

Q was afraid to think of what it might have been. Rebirth and regeneration had never been like this before.

So what had happened? Was it matter of incomplete healing? But Q felt the energy in his partner, like a living, breathing thing. It flexed and snapped and sparked through every cell.

He carefully wrapped a hand around the strong wrist and tugged. He was pleasantly surprised when James followed him, though the sharp eyes never left him. He led him to the bedroom and there was no hesitation. The older man gazed at the bed, then at Q, and there was hunger in those wintery eyes. A hunger that wasn’t purely sexual. It was… for something only Q could give.

And Q was very ready to give it, but right now he needed to assess his partner’s physical state. He knew that the trauma sat deep, that the silence was tell-tale, though this was far from bad. Bad would have been a feral phoenix, hissing and snapping at everyone and everything. James wouldn’t have made it back in that condition anyway.

This, right now, was a quiet intelligence watching him. Waiting, assessing, keeping the monster under control. It was the agent, falling back on his training to survive this experience, whatever it had been, whatever had happened to him.

Q almost absent-mindedly locked down the flat through his private network, sent an email to Tanner and one to M, telling them he might be indisposed for the next few days, that Bond was back, that yes, they would come in for a debrief, but right now he had to handle a matter that was of a preternatural nature.

He didn’t actually mention the preternatural part, but he formulated it in a way that neither man could mistake.

Then he signed off, turned on all the alarms, and concentrated only on his partner.

Undressing Bond was not even close to erotic. It was more a visual assessment as to what had happened to the man, and looking at the injuries, the burn wounds still healing and probably more painful than Bond let on, Q felt something inside of him keen softly. This had been bad; still was. If this was the state of his agent now, Q didn’t really want to think about the initial injuries, what they had looked like.

Burns. All over his body and just now fading into something from a not so far past.

Third degree at least.

Maybe…

He swallowed, refusing to think the worst, but it persisted.

“What happened to you?” he whispered, fingers ghosting over the rough scars on Bond’s abdomen.

Bond caught his hand, holding it firmly but not painfully, and pulled him in close.

Q went.

James buried his face against Q’s neck and there was a tremor running through the strong form. The quartermaster let him hold him, let him stay like this. He was nearly fully naked, Q fully clothed, and the technopath couldn’t care less.

Go with the flow.

Take his cues from Bond.

When the tremors subsided a little he carefully, experimentally pushed him toward the bed. Meeting no resistance had Q become bolder and lead again.

It was so easy to lay back and have Bond drape himself over Q, a semi-possessive arm around his waist, and Q picked up a gentle caress over the blond strands of hair, scratching his blunt nails against the scalp. James made a soft noise of contentment.

And suddenly there was this presence, this sure and heavy weight against Q’s very being. His partner. His phoenix. Over the bond. A fact in his life. And that fact had settled into the slot where he had felt nothing but darkness and emptiness these past days. A piece of Q that was finally back.

It was amazing and no one would ever be able to understand how simple it was, how welcome, how needed. His own mind was suddenly calmer. He was more in control, though he had never thought he had truly lost it.

He hadn’t zoned. He hadn’t been drawn to shiny new programs or codes or new viruses. He hadn’t slipped.

And still… It had been so hard lately. It had been painful, triggering headaches and once or twice a migraine. He had functioned on automatic. He had continued and he had forced himself to work, but the technopath knew it wouldn’t have taken more than a month or two until he would have lost himself, zoned and maybe not made it back.

Now he was back. His anchor.

Bond’s fingers clenched into his side and he buried his head against Q’s neck, warm and so very real.

_What happened to you?_ Q thought, taking in the multiple signs of physical abuse. _And how?_

He didn’t need to ask about the when in particular. Q had been privy to the moment of death in a unique way.

Bond wasn’t talking, but right now it wasn’t required. What his partner needed was… Q. Just his presence, the closeness, and nothing else. The younger man was very ready to give it without question. He needed his agent just as badly.

 

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Hotel LAN was... sloooooooow. I gave up loading any kind of website after a day of trying. So here you go!

When James actually drifted off into sleep, his whole body relaxing, unwinding, loose muscles and complete trust, Q smiled a little. Fond and worried and so much more.

Q wasn’t tired, so he went into the network. He went back to the Kazakhstan files, to where they had lost Bond’s trail in the tunnels under the abandoned building.

Bond had burn scars. Very bad, very long-lingering burn scars. Q knew the recovery rate of the phoenix and he knew that while Bond would come back to life, he would still bear the signs of his injuries. Some had scarred in the past. Q had speculated it was a sign that he hadn’t been balanced back then, that he had been too close to losing himself. The outward signs of such near-losses were the scars.

Now: healing burns.

He shuddered at the very idea that his partner had been burned.

Q went looking for fires in the area, then spread his search pattern, working the grid he had used before, and finally came up with a list of fires that had happened in the past month in various, possible locations. One had been a car pile-up involving a truck transporting gasoline. It had been fairly close to Bond’s last known location and there had been several deaths. All but one person had been identified.

One.

Q swallowed as he pulled up the file, refusing to look at the photos from the coroner’s report.

What caught his attention was the claim a week later that the body had disappeared out of the morgue. The police had investigated the apparent theft, but no break-in had been discovered. There was one article about losing the corpse, another speculating the man had risen and walked out.

It sounded laughable.

But it wasn’t if one took into account that this might have been a phoenix.

Q stared at the peacefully sleeping man in bed with him, took in the damage, refusing to think of what James must have gone through.

Still, the thoughts came unbidden.

He had… Q swallowed. He had burned. The report had mentioned a double-tap shot to the head, killing the man before he had been burned. More speculation was that he had been in the trunk of a car before the gasoline truck had hit it, throwing him out but not clear of the fire.

Bond had come back from that. He had come back from being shot and burned!

His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest, and only because Bond moved slightly in his sleep, burying closer to Q, did he get his reaction under control. Q rested a protective hand on his agent’s shoulder, finger pads sliding over uneven skin.

What kind of energy had been necessary to resurrect him? What kind of will and strength had let the phoenix rise, screeching and screaming, a dark, nightmarish monster, and continue living? What had it taken for him to slip out of the morgue unseen in his condition, more primal than human, running on instinct? How had he made it from almost near the Kazakh-Chinese border back to England? Did he even remember it?

James had had no medical help. In the past he had never been without, sooner or later. He had survived and needed healing time. That had sped up slightly with the acknowledgment of the connection between them, but he wasn’t like a werewolf, whose instant healing was legendary.

He must have gotten pain medication and bandages from somewhere. Or had someone helped him? If yes, who and why?

Q made a mental note to look into the theft of medication from hospitals or pharmacies.

And how could a mind take this? he mused.

Q was horrified by the idea alone, but to live through this?

There were no reports on preternaturals like a phoenix. They were generally seen as myths, as something that couldn’t really exist, and the few things the quartermaster had found were without true evidence or any other, sane foundation. Those who had talked about people coming back from the dead had been discredited.

But the phoenix did exist, and Bond had resurrected more than once.

The danger was simply in the very nature of the beast. The phoenix was terrifying. It was a cold predator, it lived for the hunt, the blood, the kill. It needed the violence and it was the perfect assassin. But with each resurrection it consumed part of itself and only the mental strength of the preternatural with such a nightmarish, primal soul kept the human from going over the edge, giving in to the madness and finally perishing completely.

James Bond was a very strong man and he had survived the rebirths against all odds. He had fought for his sanity and while he had been close to finally surrendering to the horror he was when Moneypenny had shot him, he had pulled himself together for one last time.

To save M.

And in the end he had lost her.

But he had found Q.

Q was very much aware of what it meant to be the balance to this creature his partner was deep down in his soul. He had faced the fire and the ice and the violence, and he had always been able to soothe and calm and even out the temper. By just being there.

Like right now.

And now, nearly a year after M’s death, he wasn’t really any closer to understanding the true nature and power of the preternatural being. He knew what Bond needed, but he had been wary of speculating on what he could do if driven to extremes concerning his recovery powers.

Now… Now he had perished in a fire… and he had come back…almost literally from the ashes…

Sane.

Because he was sane. There was nothing feral about him. There was no monster dominating his mind. He was in control, he had been in control enough to get here without an incident, but how? Agents were trained to survive, to find ways to get back, to steal and lie and take what they needed, employ all their abilities to make it back.

And James had.

He had made it back.

Q gazed at the sleeping man in his arms, the man who trusted him, and only him, so completely, and he was drawn between horror and amazement.

But why had resurrection shaved a few years off? Had his death hit some kind of reset? If yes: why? And why to that one point in Bond’s life? He had been a phoenix since birth. Why go back to what he had been like when he had become a Double-Oh?

Q petted the blond head and kept browsing, kept trying to catch a glimpse of his partner’s actions, ran facial recognition software, but there was too much for him to wade through. It was humanly impossible and even as a technopath he wouldn’t be able to find him if he didn’t have at least one image to go after.

An email from M had him smile grimly. The head of MI6 had taken Bond off the active list, had pushed Q into medical leave or vacation time, whatever he wanted, and he demanded a detailed report on whatever Q could give him.

So he gave him shreds, because that was all he actually had himself. He tagged an apology to it. James wasn’t talking yet and he might not even remember everything, but should he talk, Q would report.

M had to be satisfied with that.

For now he was and Q was thankful for it. Mallory gave him a lot of freedom when it came to Bond and it was more than appreciated.

 

 

He sent a brief message to Finch.

The reply was almost instantaneous and it made him smile.

‘Take care of him.’

Of course he would.

 

* * *

 

Q had dozed off and he only drifted awake when he felt the mattress move. He was quickly alert, checking his network, the time, the date. All in a nanosecond. He was satisfied another second later that no one had broken into the place, that they were still alone, in private, and that only three hours had passed.

Dark eyes watched as Bond got up and walked into the bathroom. Naked skin stretching over the toned body, the muscles lithe and trained as always. Completely nude. Sometime throughout the past hours or just in the last minute, Q didn’t really know, Bond had lost his last article of clothing.

Not that he didn’t enjoy the sight. Damn, he wouldn’t be alive if he didn’t. It also gave him an unobstructed view of the scarring, which was fading.

Q listened to the toilet flush, then the shower came on. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t tired and his brain felt better than in days. The headache that had always been there, underneath it all and waiting to flare or turn into a migraine, was gone.

Instead of waiting for his partner, Q went and made coffee. He also prepared sandwiches, just in case Bond was hungry.

The agent came out of the bedroom not much later, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing only a pair of sweat pants, looking a lot better than a few hours ago. Truly, he did. Q’s sharp eyes took in the much more faded burn scars and his brain was all over those facts. His torso still showed the injuries quite clearly, but less pronounced. His face was… almost back to normal.

Dear god… mere hours. A few hours together, the bond no longer strained and dark, reviving with their proximity, and the healing had sped up. Q was stumped and scared and so much more. He could feel the knot of energy within James, almost as if each touch had him crackle with it. It was still there, not used up, from the last resurrection and it was working something inside his partner.

Like on automatic he reached out and ran explorative fingers over the shaven face.

“You healed,” he whispered, fighting the awe and the fear that came with it.

Bond caught the hand, still not talking, his eyes too sharp, too silvery still, and the kiss that claimed Q’s lips spoke of his need for the technopath. He was a dark, coiled presence.

It was touching something deeper than before. It wrapped itself around Q’s soul, held it, needed it, and then and there he was aware how much power he had over this man.

James Bond was his agent. But the phoenix was his anchor as well, and that bond was stronger than anything else. He needed James, but the older man seemed to rely on him even more

“I’m here. Not leaving,” he murmured when they parted, then groaned softly into the gentle bites delivered against his neck.

Strong fingers slipped underneath his Henley, seeking warm skin, and Bond breathed against his neck. It sounded like Q’s name, rough and gritty, like chewing on broken glass.

“I’m here,” the quartermaster repeated.

The kiss was reassuring, reaffirming, and it was far more than merely sexual. The connection between them was like a living, breathing thing. It was there, right in the middle of his soul, firm and a total fact of his life. It resonated strongly, it pulled them together.

“Hungry?” Q offered, never stopping the caress.

Those intense eyes briefly left his face and looked at the sandwiches. A small, very Bond-like smile pulled at his agent’s lips. That tiny crinkle at the corner of his mouth. Q knew his phoenix was always professional on the job, that he only let go in private, and he had seen and heard him laugh, had seen him free and without a care when they were together.

This was a first step.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get some food into you.”

Bond accepted the sandwiches and the coffee, but he stayed close to Q, like an instinct was telling him to be with his balance, his own anchor. And it was instinct; it was the preternatural.

They were on the couch together after that, James leaning into his partner, seeking closeness, seeking confirmation of what they were. Q let him.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured into the blond strands that were longer than the last time he had seen James.

The blue eyes were so intense when Bond leaned over him, Q shivered a little. Blunt, deadly fingers touched the frames of his glasses and, when Q didn’t stop him, pulled them carefully off.

The kiss was punctuated by tiny nips, almost playful, and Bond pushed him back.

Q went with the flow.

His Henley went next. Then his pants. And he wasn’t passive either. Bond was only wearing the sweat pants, but those went, too.

The phoenix straddled him and gazed down at the technopath. Q smiled, almost challenging. Even now, in this situation, he wouldn’t submit to the powerful predator.

The answer was a slow smile, hungry and needy and knowing.

The bite to his jaw was his own challenge for his quartermaster, and Q scratched blunt nails over his skin without breaking it. He was careful of the scarring, but Bond rumbled his appreciation, the kisses growing more hungry, more intense.

Q pushed up, felt the reaction, the growl more than telling, and their movements became more intense. Bond’s teeth were leaving their marks, but Q didn’t care. He urged him on, pushing, pulling, wanting. James gave in to the need and they slid against each other, the emotions open between them, the intensity without equal, and the rough friction was amazing.

Q came hard, Bond’s name on his lips, and the harsh exhalation of air announced his agent’s completion. Bond sagged onto him and Q didn’t mind the weight, held him close, listening to their harsh breaths.

“I died,” Bond whispered after a while, voice hoarse, almost jagged.

Q carded the fingers of both hands into the damp hair, holding on. “I know,” he answered.

“I came back. Hell. Felt like… hell…”

The voice was muffled against his skin.

Q waited.

Bond pushed himself up, stomach spattered with the evidence of their encounter, and Q sat up as well. He didn’t mind their nudeness. He didn’t care what they looked like. He was only concentrating on James.

Bond had died in fiery hell. He had burned. Something had happened then as the phoenix had risen. He had recovered from such intense physical destruction. Finch had told him about the possibility, but for it to really happen?

Q pushed away the images of burned corpses, of James’ image overlaying those gruesome deaths.

The quartermaster interlaced their fingers, squeezing the broad hand.

How long had it taken? How much had Bond felt of it? When had he come back to life? When to consciousness? Who had maybe been there?

A soft sound of distress escaped his lips.

Blue eyes, no longer so silvery, looked at him. There were emotions there, emotions Bond never talked about, except when there was no other outlet. Right now he couldn’t put them into words. 

The Double-Oh reached out with his free hand, cupping Q’s cheek, fingers ghosting over his temple. It was soothing, cool, balm for his soul, and his eyes slid shut automatically.

“I can’t… remember,” Bond said roughly, sounding almost fragile. “Anything.”

Q opened his eyes, saw the pain in those silvery orbs. And the pain was terrible. Not physical. It was deep within the phoenix’s soul, the last trace of an inhuman ordeal. It was something that had even scared the monstrous thing that never shied away from death and blood. It had left marks. It had the creature push forward in a different way.

It needed reassurance, it needed Q. He smiled softly and turned his head a little to kiss the rough palm.

“I can’t remember,” he repeated. “It has never happened before. I always… always, Q!”

And that hurt, too. It hurt like so many things. Q wanted alleviate that hurt, wanted his partner to know that he was there, that he would give him whatever he needed.

He didn’t dig any deeper. Loss of memory was to be expected after such a traumatic death and rebirth. James might just need more time.

And the phoenix needed a calm environment, safety, familiarity.

Bond claimed another kiss, rough and still demanding, a different kind of fire racing through him.

There was no more talking after that.

 

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Harold Finch sat at his usual computer station, the screens around him showing data running in the background, surveillance from inside and outside the library, and one screen had page 56 from an old book he was currently digitalizing for Q on it. It wasn’t a quick job to scan a book this old and brittle. He had to conserve it, take care not to crack the spine too much, and there was the matter of light or humidity damage.

Soft steps announced a visitor. He almost automatically knew who it was, even without checking the cameras. A hand slid over one shoulder blade to his shoulder, a strong thumb brushing over his neck.

“New hobby, Finch?” John Reese asked in his low, soft voice.

“Something our friends might find interesting as well.”

Reese looked at the screen, the thumb never stopping the caress. It was just above the collar line of Finch’s dress shirt, teasing and calming in one.

“You’re sending him the whole book?”

“It’s a helpful reference that can’t be found anywhere else. And with Mr. Bond’s resurrection under such… intense circumstances, they might need whatever I can find.”

He leaned back and Reese’s fingers slid through the short hair, lightly scratching over his scalp.

“How much did Q tell you?”

“So far? That Bond was shot and killed. His body was… burned.”

The fingers stilled and Reese gave a soft hiss, so low it was barely audible. Finch was very attuned to the other man and he heard it.

“He came back, John. Alive and sane. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for a human body to regenerate like this, even a preternatural like the phoenix. It opens a whole new can of worms. Apparently the regeneration overshot a little, taking a few years with it.”

Reese made a non-committal noise. He stepped back and watched Finch work, briefly disappearing, only to come back with a cup of Sencha tea. The cipher took it gratefully and joined Reese a while later where the hellhound was studying the book titles on a shelf Finch had just lately added. All dealt with the supernatural or preternatural. Finch smiled a little, studying the long, lean lines in the dark suit. It was amazing to have this man as a partner, to know that Reese had given him his complete trust, that he had voluntarily chosen to bind himself to Finch. He was extremely loyal and that loyalty had become so much more.

Harold pushed the book in his hand into the correct slot and Reese leaned closer, seeking touch. Hellhounds were tactile when it came to their partners and Finch had been surprised just how much Reese sought him out. The casual lingering, the low banter, the smiles, the crinkle around his eyes, it was all so much more intense now.

John slipped an arm around his waist and Finch let him. Their more intimate relationship had developed slowly. Finch hadn’t had anything close to a relationship in almost four years. For Reese it had been even longer. This was also new territory for them and despite the attraction and the pull they had toward each other, they went slow.

It didn’t stop John from claiming a kiss now and then. Like right now.

Finch enjoyed it; very much.

“Any plans for tonight, Harold?” Reese asked, the soft rumble doing things to Finch that hadn’t happened in a long, long time.

“Is this a proposal for a date, Mr. Reese?”

It got him a slow, lazy smile.

Well, then a date it was. They had no new number at the moment and Q’s end of the email exchange was currently silent.

Reese seemed to read his mind because the smile grew. The next kiss was soft and gentle.

“Tonight then,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

Forty-eight hours after suddenly arriving in Q’s flat, all scars had disappeared.

Completely.

Q had studied the ruggedly handsome features and found no remains. Now, after the healing, the difference to before was no longer so tell-tale. Bond still looked a little tired, but they were working on that. Tiny lines around his eyes had disappeared, a few others, too, but the loss of years was no longer to pronounced. Five, maybe six years, Q mused.

Regeneration had taken that off his back, but why? Q’s only theory was that because of the massive energy discharge that had revived him, because nothing like this had ever happened before, things had gone a little awry.

Q had checked him head to toe, much to Bond’s amusement. Not a mark left.

The agent had been around Q almost every moment. He never let his technopath out of his sight. There had been a lot of touching, a lot of casual body contact. It was almost… like a normal couple, not two MI6 agents who happened to be preternaturals and who were very different from one another. Newly in love, normal people.

Q had to almost laugh.

They spent the day as couch potatoes, reading or watching TV. They ordered take-out, they took strolls along the embankment of the Thames, they actually did some touristy stuff, or had a drink at a pub.

So normal.

No MI6-related work. Nothing at all.

Bond’s memories were fractured, though.

He also didn’t really talk all that much. What he did was sleep. More than Q was used to, but apparently it was necessary for the speedy recovery as well. He had been on the move since his resurrection and there had been no time for him to lay down and just… just heal. Instinct had driven him on.

Now he was home and catching up on that. And with the ability to be around Q, to touch him physically, the healing rate had risen exponentially. Q no longer felt like his partner was a massive battery, charged to the max, and it told of where the energy had gone to: regeneration.

Bond also spoke very little. Q didn’t mind. His partner wasn’t a very talkative person on his best day, so rarely a word wasn’t alarming.

 

 

Q had started exercising his mind. He didn’t type commands, he entered them mentally. He coded, he cleaned up his hard drives, he installed new programs, and he tweaked existing ones.

It was fun.

It was easy, oh so easy.

And it didn’t hurt.

Sometimes Bond watched him with intense eyes that reflected that he understood exactly what his partner was doing.

He still didn’t say anything.

Sometimes his fingers would ghost over Q’s arm, his temple, and the cool presence of his anchor wrapped around him like a blanket, keeping him from harm without restraining his abilities.

Q was also working on the security of an island laptop he had created. It was inaccessible by normal means. It had no connection to the internet through wifi or cable. There wasn’t even a port to slot a cable into. It was independent and walled off from hackers. The keys were coded to his fingers on top of that.

It contained Q’s notes and knowledge concerning the phoenix.

Sitting back on the couch, the quartermaster added his recent discoveries and also Finch’s book as a possible reference guide, though, like all of them there was no evidence that it had been gained from experience with a real phoenix, not simply rumors and tales.

The files were growing, but they weren’t for anyone but Q himself. He might just hand them over to Finch for safekeeping, a kind of back-up, just in case, because Finch and Reese were about the only people he would trust with that knowledge.

 

 

Throughout the next hour Bond joined him on the couch. He switched on the TV and chose a news coverage, then leaned back and just watched.

Sometime later Bond leaned more against him. There was a neutral expression on his smooth features. Q was still unable to really comprehend how the rebirth had overshot since it had never happened before. He had tried to find a trigger, had tried to find a reason why. It all came back to the one theory that the massive physical damage had had the phoenix go through so much energy that it hadn’t hit its mark.

Strangely, the older scars hadn’t vanished. At least not all. The scar from where Moneypenny had shot him was gone, as was the rugged, uneven mark from the splinters he had removed himself after Patrice had tried to kill him.

He might never get an answer to all of those questions. Maybe he didn’t really need them. James was back and that was the most important thing for Q.

Not long after joining him on the couch, his partner was asleep.

Q smiled at the blond head resting in his lap. He ran a gentle hand through the strands and looked down at the now peaceful features which still held a shadow of the hell he must have gone through.

They would get through this. He knew they would. Bond was a lot stronger than that. A phoenix’s mind had to withstand resurrection. With a balance provided by a partner even the inevitable demise wasn’t a danger any more.

And if the memories came back they would deal with it. Each in his own way and together as well.

 

* * *

 

_He didn't want to come back._

_Coming back meant pain, and he didn't want to feel pain, but consciousness dragged remorselessly at him, pushing him further and further away from the numbing blackness._

_Blinking, he opened his eyes, squinting into the twilight around him. For a second he was confused, not knowing where he was. All he knew was the pain, the fire burning through his whole body, the blazing agony of death and resurrection._

 

 

Bond stood in the living room, staring out the windows over London, eyes silvery and almost unblinking. He felt the raging storm of the memories, of the phoenix hissing and snapping and dominant in his mind.

Memories of waking up. Fragments of his rebirth. Then there was nothing again.

It was a wave of upheaval, emotions that threatened to overwhelm his logical mind, and it frightened him. He had never been scared of remembering the pain of his death, of torture, physical or mental. Sure, he had never perished like that. He had died before, yes. Multiple times, but never like this.

Never with a memory loss like that.

And that loss frightened him more than any pain he might dream about. The black hole of nothingness after his revival was new. He had never not remembered.

Yes, it was scary.

And still, like far, far away, something teased at his mind. That moment of death, of rebirth, of pain and disorientation.

They would come back. They were already coming back…

“James?”

He had heard the quartermaster approach. Q wasn’t trying to be stealthy. He had listened to the familiar sound and he briefly closed his eyes as slender but strong arms curled around his waist.

Bond pulled him in closer, brushing his lips over the soft skin on Q’s right temple.

He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Definitely not now. He was still trying to sort through what kept coming up now and then. The flashes were disjointed, but there were more and more.

Just two months ago Q had mentioned that the phoenix was evolving, that he was becoming more than he had been in his past. Because of the psychic link he had to his partner. Because he was able to come back from death without consuming part of his soul every single time. Because resurrection was no longer one step closer to a final death.

What had happened… it had been bigger than coming back from death within just four hours. It was so much bigger.

And it should be frightening.

It wasn’t.

James Bond accepted it because that was what he was: a preternatural. His nature was the phoenix. This was what he was capable of, what he could bear without breaking down.

 

 

They relocated after a while.

 

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Q had gone grocery shopping. He came back with a lot of supermarket bags containing fresh and frozen food. He stocked the kitchen while Bond was doing push-ups and sit-ups in the living room. He glanced over now and then, smiling to himself. James was topless, only in sweats and socks, and watching muscles flex and sweat shine on the smooth skin was very nice to look at.

Very nice.

Appetizing, too.

Q sometimes wondered about himself. He was still influenced a lot by his partner’s looks. He refused to fall all over himself and submit to the raw sexuality the Double-Oh could project, but he did react to naked skin on display like that.

He forced himself back to his task, shoving salad and vegetables of all kinds into the fridge. The freezer was already filled. There was also toast and bread and cans of beans and other things that ended up in cupboards and drawers.

Q was finally done and allowed himself another long look at the expanse of warm, smooth skin. He found older scars he knew intimately, which was kind of reassuring. The missing ones were a bit off-setting.

“See something you like, Q?” Bond rumbled, the corners of his mouth crinkling into a tiny, mocking smile.

“All the freckles are still there.” Q raised an eyebrow.

The smile grew, now with a hint of seduction. “Did you count them?”

“You should know I’m thorough.”

The smile involved more teeth and he was being undressed by those glacially blue eyes alone.

Q was fully clothed from his grocery shopping, which meant, in these temperatures, layers. About three underneath his coat, which was the only article of clothing he had taken off.

Bond smiled more, all knowing, with an edge of predator, and he smoothly got up from the floor where he had finished his sit-ups. His approach was that of a large cat, all grace and muscle and intent.

“How can you tell if they are really all there? I’m still wearing my pants.”

“Impossible,” Q sighed and shook his head, but he couldn’t resist running a hand over the warm skin.

Bond’s grin was even more hungry and he kissed his quartermaster. Q understood that the instinctual side was there, driven by the resurrection, wanting its balance and taking what it needed. He liked the instinctual side and so far it had been less than he had expected. Normally their encounters after a rebirth were filled with energy-laden sex. He liked that part very much.

Not this time.

James had been very tactile, seeking physical comfort through, yes, cuddling. James Bond was currently a big teddy bear. He was playful, he was teasing, but he wasn’t taking.

The phoenix placed a kiss against Q’s temple, then his jaw, his neck, curling his arms around him and holding him close. It was more intimate than sex sometimes. It was very private, something ingrained in the preternatural, and Q felt a curl of warmth deep inside him. The gesture was them; it expressed them and what they were more than anything else, including very hot sex.

He raked his fingers through the sweat-damp hair, then let his fingers brush over the facial features, exploring, mapping, marveling at the small changes. Slightly smoothed out. Slightly less lines. Q could tell because he had been studying the ruggedly handsome face so often before. It was still the face of a killer, of death, of the man he loved, of someone who shouldn’t fit him so perfectly.

“Like what you see.” It wasn’t even a question.

“I liked it before already,” Q said honestly, holding the intense gaze.

No silver. Bright blue, a darker ring around the iris, fascinating, intense, but the phoenix wasn’t the driving force.

He framed the ruggedly handsome face. “There was nothing wrong with what I saw either.”

Bond’s smile was tinged with softer emotions. “I know.”

Of course he did.

“Freckles,” he murmured as he stroked over the skin, smiling. “All still there.”

“Where would they go?” Bond teased.

Q kept up the facial caress. James let him. It was affectionate, loving, and filled with fondness. Q brushed their lips together, then released his hold.

“I’ll let you finish your exercises,” he said calmly. “I have a few mails to answer.”

Bond’s broadened, but he didn’t draw him back. The energy between them was almost palpable. It was there, it wove them together, it drew them to the other again and again. It was the definition of what James Bond was.

The Double-Oh simply went back to his training, pulling out weights. The teasing smile was there for a second longer, then he got back into his serious work-out.

Q watched him for a moment, then logged into his network to do his own exercises.

 

* * *

 

With his anchor near-by, Q went back to talking to The Machine. He still didn’t have an inkling as to where the massive server room was located, but he was getting quite familiar with the entity those servers housed.

He never pushed inside, never stepped past that shield that protected them from touching each other. Q was convinced he wouldn’t survive the experience. The Machine was more than any computer core he had ever scanned or walked through. It was a growing thing. It felt more sentient than a mere machine, definitely aware, and it was responding more and more to Q’s visits.

Still, there was an edge, like the technopath was only looking at the surface, and it made him cautious.

The Machine didn’t talk. It didn’t communicate in any way anyone who wasn’t a technopath could understand. What Q got were flashes his unique mind could translate and he smiled to himself sometimes, especially when those flashes contained something regarding The Admin. The Machine loved its creator, it protected Finch to the extent it was capable of, and it accepted Reese as a very relevant part of The Admin’s life.

Q liked ‘hanging out’ with the fascinating presence. He liked to watch, just stand there within the HUD of his mind and watch and wait and listen. The Machine would be close, curious, almost child-like, but still so very dangerous. Sometimes there would be flashes of a different kind, like it was showing him a life different from what Finch and Reese dealt with.

The relevant list. The one it had been created for.

Q was fascinated and he had followed up on it, though never too deeply. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he had stumbled over a few interesting reports, all of them CIA, and he had known right then and there that the source had been The Machine. It had started with a number and gone from there.

Finch had been hesitant to go deeper than he usually did. He wasn’t capable of entering a HUD like Q. That was purely a technopath’s ability and it was his unique way of communication and work. But he could probably use the backdoor he had created to gain access to his creation again.

The Machine wouldn’t stop him. Q knew that for a fact.

But Finch, as talented as he was, didn’t really want to open that particular can of worms.

“Every door goes both ways,” he had once told Q. “If I get in, something might get out.”

And he hadn’t meant The Machine.

Too many people were using his creation and they had no idea that the irrelevant list was copied to him at midnight each day. If he gained entry, if he changed something, only touched it maybe, someone might notice. No one knew if the people in control of The Machine might not have a cipher of their own. Or someone even more talented.

Q looked at the code, at the endless data streaming past his technopathic eye. It was too fast for a mere human to truly differentiate, but he wasn’t that mere human. He was a technopath and it was all very clear to him, every line, every command, ever routine and subroutine.

One push against the barrier and he would be in.

One concentrated thought and he would be able to link himself.

It was terrifying. And tempting.

So very, very tempting.

There was something like a breath of air, then giant wings spread over him. An illusion, something that wasn’t real and never had been, but it was there and it was the representation of his partner’s preternatural side. The phoenix’s midnight black wings covered him, without cutting his connection, without holding him down or dulling his senses. It was his security blanket and it was magnificent, beautiful, amazing, majestic… so many positive things in one.

Never frightening.

Q looked up, saw nothing but the inky darkness, then piercing blue eyes seemed to capture him and draw him away. He smiled and stepped back, leaving the HUD.

He was still on the couch, laying down, and James was sitting at his head, book in one hand, the other petting Q’s hair. The same blue eyes he had just seen now looked at him, a smile within their depths.

“Playing, Q?” he murmured.

“Exercising.”

It got him an appreciative nod.

Q sat up, noting a tension that had nothing to do with the little exercise run. It didn’t strain Bond to be his anchor. He didn’t actively intervene, nor could he see what Q did. That wasn’t how the psychic link worked, and Q was sure that no one but a technopath could actually survive such an experience.

“James?” he asked.

“Things keep coming back,” his partner said calmly. “More and more. There’s no trigger, just… leakage.”

Q frowned, suddenly feeling alert. “Things?”

A shrug. “Now and then. Small fragments. They are more than dreams, but not real memories yet. I remember every part of my mission. I remember that I was captured, interrogated and killed. Beyond that, I’m not sure. Some things get through. Some are… strange… Waking up. Cold and dark. Then I’m moving, like on a train. And then there’s nothing again.”

The cold, easy delivery of his demise had Q bite back a shudder.

“Your killers were involved in a car accident when a gas truck went up in flames,” he told his agent when James gave him a quizzical look, prompting him to fill in the blanks. “They died in their car.”

Bond raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Justice.”

“You were in that car, too.”

“I was dead at the time, Q.”

Q regarded the other man on the couch with him. He was no psychologist, but Bond appeared very stable, very matter-of-fact, mixed with emotions that peeked through now and then. Because James let him see them.

“You burned,” the quartermaster stated bluntly.

“I wasn’t there for it,” he replied. “Well, I was; physically. But I didn’t burn alive. I can’t remember something I was already dead for. And I came back.”

He sighed. “Yes. You walked out of the morgue. All my knowledge tells me that it should have been impossible for you to even move after rebirth. You looked like a burn victim when you arrived back home. You must have been suffering the effects back then as well.”

Bond regarded him without revealing a single thought. “I’m a phoenix, Q.”

“And you went through something I wouldn’t have thought you, even you, would be able to survive.”

“But I did.”

Q worried his lower lip. “You did.”

“You want an explanation for it,” Bond stated.

“I’d like to have one, yes. You lost your memories of what happened after you came back. Maybe you also have memory loss you aren’t even aware of. Somehow you made it back anyway, without leaving a visible trail of bodies, as far as I can tell.”

It got him a smile. Almost cruel, predatory, the phoenix rising inside his partner. The monstrous thing was back to full strength, overpowering, overwhelming to those who had never met it before, and Q faced the nightmare with his routine calm. It seemed satisfied with his response.

“How did you get back to England, 007?”

“I don’t know, quartermaster. I suspect I stowed away and did a lot of things by instinct. We field operatives can get in and out of almost all situations without a trace. It’s what we are trained for. We’re quite… inventive.”

Q was happy to hear the light, teasing sarcasm. And he knew that Bond could move across the whole of Europe without ever hitting anyone’s radar. It was simply the fact that he had done it while firmly locked in his instinctual side, looking like the burn victim he was, and no one had apparently reported him.

He might have to look into that more closely.

And there had probably been helpers, even if James couldn’t recall them.

“Did you kill anyone?”

Bond shrugged almost casually. “If they threatened me, it’s possible.”

“Maybe I should hunt more deeply for reports on bodies,” the technopath muttered darkly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t. I’m home. It’s enough, I believe.”

He tilted his head. “For me it is. For M? I’m not sure.”

“Screw M.”

“I’d rather not.”

The expression in Bond’s eyes had something hot flash through Q and he fought back his irritation. At himself. For behaving like a… a hormonal teenager. Fangirlish.

“We might have to cover up a few of your exploits,” he tried for normalcy.

“I doubt it. Before I came here you didn’t know I was en route either.” There was a spark of humor. “MI6 has a lot of hidden accounts, Q.”

“And you were in no condition to use a lot of those resources, 007,” came the even reply, followed by a raised eyebrow.

“I was trained to function under even the most distressing circumstances, Q.”

Q watched him, saw the truth in those fascinating eyes.

“And things are trickling back. I’m just taking longer this time.”

“Maybe,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

Because of the unusual memory holes, Q had worked out a series of questions. He wasn’t a behavioral scientist or a social studies analyst. He simply knew his partner and he wanted to know just how far the reset had gone.

Bond remembered him. Very intimately. No doubt about it. Q asked him a set of questions about themselves, about himself, and James answered them calmly, quietly, and with just a hint of teasing now and then. How they had met. How their first mission together had gone. How they had found together.

No memory loss there.

He then went back over past cases. All they had worked together since Q had become his handler.

Still no missing pieces.

Q went back further, to the painful time of the former M’s death, to Silva, to Skyfall. He saw the darkness rise, the memories Bond might have wished had been erased. He saw the tension, the anger at his failure, his loss.

But he remembered everything clearly.

Q took a gamble and asked him about Le Chiffre, about Vesper, about Venice.

The phoenix stared at him, loathing and fury raging through him. There was a soul-deep pain there.

“I remember,” he snarled and rose abruptly, leaving Q on the couch.

The younger man watched as Bond grabbed his keys and suddenly left the flat.

He let him.

“Well,” Q muttered to himself, “that went… badly…”

 

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

It was probably a sign of the torment he had gone through, the trauma to his body and soul, that Bond had lost his cool and control when Q had asked him about his very first mission as a Double-Oh agent.

He knew why his partner had done it. It was how far his regeneration had let him regress on the outside; his appearance from six years ago. A few less lines, but with all his memories of then till now very much intact.

It wasn’t so much the mention of Vesper; more the emotions roiling through him that had triggered his loss of control.

Betrayal. Anger. Fury. So much rage. So much pain. Watching her die. Feeling the emptiness inside. Feeling the monster hiss and snap and want to break free, want to break something, someone. It had been the first time he had been ready to release the phoenix from all shackles, to just lose himself. He had wanted to take a life and not continue his own like that; without her.

Back then he had thought she would be the one. Back then he had hoped she could be the stabilizing influence the phoenix needed to survive. He hadn’t really listened to his instincts or he might have seen it sooner: Vesper Lynd hadn’t been a possible mate. She had been a plaything for his darker nature, a way to while away time and soothe the hunger and need for stability.

And she hadn’t been able to give that to him either. James Bond had been ready to give up everything for her, to be with her, and she had felt good and warm in his arms, she had been passionate and full of energy.

But she had been playing him.

It had never been real. Not for a moment.

Bond stared out over the Thames.

She had been the wrong one. She hadn’t been his balance. She hadn’t even been close. She had been wishful thinking on his part, a fantasy, not for him to have and hold.

Bond gritted his teeth as the darkness rose once more, the phoenix reacting quite strongly to Vesper’s death, though not because of remorse or grief.

He hadn’t lost those memories. Everything was still there. From his childhood to today. He recalled his missions, his kills, his losses and gains. His emotions were accordingly. He might look like he had just joined the ranks of the Double-Oh section, but inside he hadn’t lost a single day.

He knew he should be thankful for it. If he had regressed as far as his first Double-Oh mission, Q would be a stranger to him.

Bond couldn’t imagine not knowing his bonded partner. He couldn’t think of being without the steady presence next to him, physically as well as mentally. Q was what he had hoped Vesper might be. He had looked and longed for the balance, but his own search had been fruitless, had been met with failure. He had turned colder after her death, harder, more ruthless, and with no remorse left. He had been the perfect killing machine, the perfect tool, and he hadn’t given it all a second thought. Bond remembered the look in the old M’s eyes, her regret at his loss, her hope that he might just connect to someone.

Back then he had pushed it all away. It had been broken glass and sharp edges, painful and slicing into him again and again. It had been unbearable torture if he let it rise.

Until Q.

Bond stood in front of the building the flat was in, staring at the door, then finally walked back inside.

 

*

 

The technopath was still there when he returned. Brown eyes behind oversized glasses, watching him, not judging, open and warm. Q’s expression was neutral. He looked composed, far from angry or hurt. This was his handler facing him, distanced if he had to be, ready to battle whatever his agent was throwing at him.

He didn’t deserve this, Bond knew. Really, he didn’t. He had never thought to find his balance, to live past that last mission, but he had. And Q didn’t deserve the crap he was being given.

Acceptance, unquestioning loyalty, and this absolute trust. It was what Q had for him.

James just stood there, the phoenix watching like the bird of prey it was, and Q tilted his head a little.

“I have all my past memories,” Bond only said roughly. “All my missions, everything. My life up until Kazakhstan is there. I know why I went there. I know how I died. My latest… demise. None of that was destroyed.”

“And I’m actually quite glad that you do. I apologize for triggering a bad one, though,” Q said evenly, slightly adjusting his glasses.

“Don’t.”

Q watched him, careful, though not afraid. It was more of an assessment how far Bond had been pushed.

Not too far, the agent knew. Not too badly. He could easily work with the dark memories. It was nothing that he hadn’t had to live through before.

“I need you,” he said roughly.

Q’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes grew warm, reflecting the emotions.

“I never needed her,” James went on. “And if I could I would remove those memories. All of them.”

“They are still there,” the quartermaster stated calmly.

“Yes.”

“They are part of you. I’m glad no part of that was destroyed.”

“I could live with a few missing pieces.”

Q quirked a brief smile.

“And the rest is coming back.”

“James.”

He came closer, pulling Q to him, taking his lips in a kiss that hadn’t been with the intent to claim but turned into one anyway. It was hard not to give in to the more primal need at the moment, like after every energy-sapping resurrection. It was even harder not to hand over his thinking to the creature and let it take what it wanted. He would never harm his partner, but to surrender and have the feral side take what it needed was an unnerving thought.

“You can let go,” Q murmured.

Bond regarded him with sharp eyes. The phoenix was a roiling thing underneath the human surface, snarling to be let go. For the first time since he had found back home, had found Q, did he feel the need for more than touch and nearness.

He wanted so, so much more.

“I don’t have to read your mind, which I can’t, to understand what you want, James,” his partner went on. “I know you. I know the phoenix. You have been holding back so far. I can feel the energy. I know it needs a release. Your body has taken all it needed. It’s time to let go.”

“Q…”

He was silenced by a hard kiss that involved teeth biting his lower lip, and he reacted accordingly.

His partner had once told him that each recovery generated an incredible amount of energy. The phoenix tapped into its very soul to come back, to defy death against all odds, and the energy had to go somewhere when physical recovery was completed.

For a man like Bond it was sex and the thrill of a dangerous game. The added booze was just for kicks, too. He had to get rid of the excess and he had chosen this way.

“Coming up with a new theory, Q?” Bond had teased him back then.

It had gotten him a stern look through the oversized glasses. “Only theory. To prove it I would have to kill you. Hardly an option.”

Bond had chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It would be a first for me, and it’s a first I can live without. Proving anything connected to your innate abilities requires your death, someone with the right equipment, and a long time of measuring what’s happening while you come back. Like I said, not an option.”

No, it wasn’t. Bond wouldn’t set a step into Medical voluntarily when he was bleeding to death, so going there to be killed and have someone watch him while he revived? Bloody hell no!

“So it remains a theory?”

The smile had been slightly mocking. “With your track record in women and booze and thrill-seeker games? Most of it is fact. I don’t need charts filled with energy measurement to tell me that. Knowing just how much the phoenix’s revival generates will get us nowhere.”

He understood the theory. He also knew Q was correct in his assumptions. James Bond needed release after dying. He needed the fast, hard sex. He needed the fast, dangerous game. He needed the thrill, the spark of near-death, the reminder that he was alive, screaming it at the world as a challenge. It was a game between Life and Death.

Death had never won; and never would. He had beat it again and again, and the last time had taken everything out of him.

Giving in to instinct was life affirmation in a way, feeling his partner’s body, feeling the heat, listening to the groans and pants and encouragement, spilling into the willing form.

It had always been part of himself; it would always be. On a mission he took who he wanted, mostly to get what he needed, to take what he had come to steal. It was a quick, fleeting satisfaction.

Bond looked at the narrow face, the glasses hiding the brown eyes, protecting Q from flashing involuntarily into the web. He took in the pale skin, the red lips, the mess of dark hair. He felt the lean body, slender and stronger than he looked. Clean-shaven, looking so young, so much the geek, so little like the technopath who could command a Double-Oh, who had the respect of all of them, who was head of a whole department and was doing such a swell job.

“Stop thinking, Bond,” his handler now ordered, voice deceptively soft and low.

“Yes, sir,” he rumbled, grinning.

He removed the glasses, slowly, carefully, giving Q a last moment to intercept.

He didn’t.

Bond leaned down and kissed the long, pale column of Q’s neck, biting harder where the neck met the shoulder.

Strong fingers clawed at his shoulders.

He took that as permission.

 

* * *

 

James woke to the feeling of absolute warmth. Loose muscles, laziness, not a care in the world. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the feeling of warmth, of safety, a sensation he rarely had when he woke up anywhere. Aside from waking up at home. He heard soft breathing and smiled.

Home.

After a long time of simply lying there Bond cracked his eyes open. His gaze fell on the pale, slender form with him in bed. Naked. Very pleasing to look at.

His smile grew. The memories of last night were quite vivid in his mind.

He was still tired, but pleasantly so. His fingers played with the dark hair, sliding through the longish strands. There had been the rush at first, the claim, the need to finally let go with the one he loved, then just long, sensuous hours of being together.

And things were sliding back into place. Like scenes in a play, like pages in a book, it all became one again.

With Q’s little memory game, things had started to happen in his brain. It had been like a jumpstart for a recalcitrant engine and now it was running with some hiccups that would soon smooth out. Bond’s emotional reaction and outburst because of those questions had done their own little magic.

Apparently the brain took a little longer to recover from such a shock to the system. But it recovered. It was like the gates were slowly opening. Not the flood gates, just a door that was allowing small peeks, that dropped something inside his mind now and then.

Bond remembered the mission. He remembered catching up to the target. He remembered the trap, killing several armed men, and he remembered the capture. There had been his interrogation and torture. That was a rather explicit memory, but it sparked no adrenaline rush, no echoed fear or traumatic reactions. It never had.

His ability to put something like torture and pain into a drawer and lock it away, deal with it and not react according to the psychology text books, had stumped more than one psychologist at MI6. He had never conformed to the norm. He had never been the mental wreck they tried to make him. Post traumatic stress disorder just didn’t happen.

His decline had been of a different kind. It had been the slow loss of his humanity, the phoenix taking over, because he had lost himself piece by piece with every rebirth. No psychologist could diagnose a raving phoenix. They didn’t know who James Bond really was. All his deficiencies had been because of his preternatural nature suffering more and more.

Bond grimaced a little when he recalled how his Kazakh captors had killed him execution style. Bullet to the brain. Fast, effective.

Then there had been darkness.

The darkness had been there for a long time. Sometimes he caught faint flashes of something violent and ruthless and angry. He caught hunger and need and fury. He recalled the endless fury best. The rage at death trying to take him. The nightmare rising to fight back and to return.

Return home.

Not England, not MI6. Q. Home to the one he needed, his balance, his anchor, and the person he was an anchor to as well. He remembered that the most. The urge, the drive, the single-minded determination that nothing would deter him from his goal. He would find his partner and be with him.

He remembered the guiding presence, the spark in the darkness, the light that wasn’t light. It was life. It was his counterpart. It drew him in and he crawled ever-closer, needing to be there, needing to live.

Bond wasn’t very clear on when he had regained true consciousness and had no longer trusted in his instinct alone, but it had been somewhere close to the Polish-German border. In a truck loaded with spare parts. He had slipped off the truck at an overnight stop and had gone on from there.

Looking at the dark head of his partner, he tried to delve deeper into his fractured mind, tried to discover how he had managed to get so far.

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. He had not a single clue and it should frighten him, but it didn’t anymore. The phoenix had operated on instinct, had done what was necessary to sneak out of Kazakhstan. He must have made it all the way across Belarus somehow, then into Poland, and then he was almost in Germany.

The next clear memory was of Berlin. It was where he had tapped into MI6 accounts, had moved into a hotel suite, and recovered. There had been no questions asked. He had been given complete privacy and his records had been in another guest’s name.

Total anonymity.

He wasn’t the only guest assured of that status.

About forty hours in Berlin, becoming more and more human, looking at a face that was him but which looked alien in so many ways, he had taken a night train to Amsterdam. There he had spent a few hours, then he had gone on to cross the channel by ferry.

It was the Double-Oh’s instinct, not the preternatural’s, to obscure his trail.

Bond had masked his appearance, his injuries. He had only moved at night and the few times he had had to stand up to a ticket inspection on the train or ferry, the night operators hadn’t looked twice.

He had been exhausted by the time he arrived at the flat, barely able to uphold his control, shields frayed and splintering, the strain on his healing soul too much.

Even as a special agent, a Double-Oh, a trained killer and assassin, there was only so much James Bond could take.

Looking at Q, seeing his partner healthy and whole, feeling the bond slide back into place, had been like a warm blanket wrapping around his mind. He had been unable to voice what he wanted to say, had felt only the instinct to be close, and he had given the phoenix free reign.

Too tired, too old all of a sudden, too needy, and he had surrendered.

He would always surrender to Q. No one else.

_I love him_ , he thought. _I crave him, I want him, I need him. I won't let him go._

_tbc..._


	9. Chapter 9

He had gone for a run. His body needed to get back into shape, though he hadn’t really lost anything. Rebirth had him back in peak condition. Still, he ran. It was a freeing experience, just letting his body go through the motions. It was still early and rather cool for mid-March. There had been talk about snow on the forecast last night. Not that he had an opinion about it. Bond would take weather as it came; nothing he could change about it anyway.

So he ran along the streets, the cold air biting into his skin. He was dressed warmly, a scarf wrapped around his neck, wearing gloves and a hat, and running kept him warm enough.

Q was still asleep. After last night, and earlier this morning, he had needed some more sleep.

Bond grinned.

Yes, it had been… intense. He liked intense. His partner liked intense. And for them it was a reaffirmation of what they were.

He stopped at a corner, bought a bottle of water from a street vendor, and walked over to the small park on the other side of the road, sipping the cool liquid.

Q was balm for his soul. Just having him close, talking to him, touching him… it all healed the fractures in his mind and soul. His memories were violent and dark, filled with pain and suffering and the fury that he had been bested. Rage at the busted mission. And another, different rage, hot and fiery, icy and cold, hungry and wanting.

It was the phoenix, the moment the monster had taken over and brought itself back to life.

The moment it had pushed past the barriers of humanity and civilization, had reacted on pure cold logic and survival instinct, mixed together with the inherent danger of its dark nature.

James was like a back seat driver then. He was that creature, but recollections were that of a spectator. The phoenix was his animal instinct, his primal hindbrain. It was pure energy and sharp claws and fangs and serrated edges. He wasn’t a shape-changer. It all happened inside him and it was terrifying for anyone not accustomed to it.

He was that thing; he wasn’t afraid of what he was, what he could do, how far he could be pushed. And this time he had been pushed past all and any limits. He had come back from physical destruction of such a level like it had never happened before.

Bullet to the brain? No problem.

Burned to a crisp? Apparently a bit more of a challenge, but not impossible.

He emptied the bottle.

He could live with those memories. He had lived with them all those years before now as well.

But something had been different this time. Something had been new. Throughout the resurrection, that long, dark time of pulling energy and fighting against death, he had felt it. A tiny spark, a known connection, and he had latched onto it and… pulled. The phoenix had buried its claws into the link to Q and drawn strength from the other man’s presence.

Because it had been Q. He had felt him, he had known the technopath was there, and he had refused to tear his eyes away from that spark.

Q.

His partner.

The man he loved, the man the phoenix loved.

It had risen with a howl, all dark wings and razor sharp claws. It had blossomed, had bloomed, had been the firebird that had given the preternatural its name, and it had been glorious. It had been like euphoria; all-encompassing and mind-numbing, reviving every cell, bringing back life where there had been nothing but a dead husk.

Bond still felt those echoes and they had been… amazing. Breath-taking. He had felt the phoenix rejoice; had felt surges of absolute freedom, of lust and hunger, of rage and terror, of devotion and love. He had experienced a whole range of emotions and the had left him drained and invigorated in one.

He threw away the empty bottle and stretched, feeling his muscles respond easily. The scars were all gone. The only thing that remained, that reminded him just how bad this had been, were his looks.

Well, not that it bothered him.

Bond approached a coffee shop that was already open and ordered himself a black, strong coffee. Nothing fancy. No milk, no sugar. He took the ceramic mug and walked over to a corner table that allowed a good view of the shop, the window, the world outside.

“Mr. Bond,” the woman already sitting at the table greeted him with a smile and a nod.

There was a glass of tea in front of her. Chai Latte, he guessed.

He sat down.

“I’m not sure what surprises me more: your call or the meeting place.” She gave him a once over. “Or maybe I should be surprised how good you look, despite the outfit.”

He smirked. “Your choice.”

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Bond?”

 

* * *

 

Q had woken to an empty bed and an empty flat. It was just past six and the door log told him that James had left around five, probably for a run.

He wasn’t worried.

The technopath made himself tea and toast, enjoying the silence.

 

 

Bond came back around seven. Q had already showered, shaved and prepared coffee for his partner. The Double-Oh shot him a playful grin, then walked into the bathroom.

Q only chuckled.

Playful was good. Playful was very good.

 

 

Q found James in the bedroom, in front of the full body mirror, gazing at his reflection. He was in his sweats since he had just come back from a jog. His expression was intense, studying himself, his looks, everything. Blunt fingers traced his features, along his jaw-line, his chin, up his cheeks and along his eyes.

No scars.

No trace of what had happened.

Nothing of the ordeal had remained.

That his face had lost a few lines was of no consequence. The last two days, with healing and recovering, sleeping if off and giving his body the necessary downtime it required, things had evened out. He wasn’t shockingly younger. Five years. Maybe six. Apparently he had overshot by a little.

It almost had him laugh.

But it wasn’t too obvious. It could be ascribed to a healthier lifestyle.

That had him smile humorlessly.

Q walked over to him, wrapping an arm around the narrow waist, enjoying the firm, solid presence. As solid physically as he was inside his soul.

Bond pressed a kiss against his temple.

“This time was different,” he murmured.

Q stepped in front of him and looked into the well-known eyes, the familiar face.

“No, not different. You’re still the same. The resurrection was different because you have never been in such a situation.”

“Almost complete, physical annihilation,” the agent murmured.

He looked at the young face, framed by unruly dark hair. Q was such a steady presence for him, such a total fact in his life.

“I remember, Q,” he said softly.

“You do?”

“Yes. Everything.”

 

 

Q didn’t really want him to remember dying like this, even if his steel ball of a mind could work with that darkness. It was the nature of the phoenix. Its ability was to come back from death and the death was absorbed and worked through. The human mind didn’t suffer from the memories and a phoenix balanced by its partner didn’t consume itself either.

But James did remember. And he told him. Even, neutral delivery of facts, of life and death, of survival.

“I wish I could tell you the outcome of your resurrection was normal, but I can’t,” Q finally said softly. “There is nothing I could find on this.”

“I know.”

“Personally… I’ve to say whatever happened, whether this is your natural ability or something that only came after the phoenix was balanced, I don’t care. I’m glad you are back.”

Bond smiled, his expression soft, warm, loving. “As am I. And I believe it has to do with the bond, Q. Without it I would have perished.”

It might have been the one rebirth that could have destroyed the human mind and set the phoenix free, soaring and screaming and consuming itself. Bond would have been reborn just to die completely. There was no documentation on what a phoenix did when it lost part of itself because like everything, there were only rumors and myths.

“The anchoring effect goes both ways,” the quartermaster agreed.

“This time it had a physical effect as well, one that will stand out.”

Q shrugged. “Hardly visible. When are you at MI6 anyway, Bond? Voluntarily, that is.”

Bond chuckled. “As little as possible. I’m not an office drone.”

“Well, thank you for downgrading us office drones.”

The phoenix pulled him close for a soft kiss. “It’s a compliment for you, Q. You manage something I could never do.”

“Right,” Q snorted. “You know you have to be debriefed. M is rather patient right now, but that can change. He will know something bad happened the moment he sets his eyes on you.”

“You already made an appointment,” he stated.

Q smirked.

“You’re bad, Q.”

“I’m the best that ever happened to you, 007.”

Bond studied him, expression almost unreadable, but the eyes were tell-tale. “Yes, you are,” he finally said quietly.

“M expects us Friday afternoon. After office hours.”

“Your planning?”

“My request on our behalf.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“That gives us some more time for you to recover completely.”

“I’ll need some help with that,” Bond purred softly and pulled him in close.

 

* * *

 

Gareth Mallory had been the head of MI6 for a little more than a year now and he had seen and heard almost all when it came to 007. Looking at the clean-shaven man impeccably dressed in the charcoal suit, the white dress shirt, the expensive leather shoes, Mallory revoked that statement.

James Bond looked… not like the man he had seen at the last debriefing. There was an energy to him, something strong and deadly, something that told M that the resurrection had been massive. It seemed to surround him like a shield, bleeding off now and then, seriously disturbing to anyone around him, though most people probably wouldn’t know.

He moved like the predator he was, all sinewy grace and darkness. Bond sat down, posture easy as he leaned back in the chair, legs crossed, the perfectly fitted suit jacket falling open.

His bland expression had the head of MI6 tread carefully.

“What the bloody hell happened?” he demanded.

Well, not that carefully.

Q, looking his usual vintage hipster self, face just as carefully neutral, shrugged. “I can’t say I know, sir. All we know is that 007 was killed and his abilities kicked in. Extremely.”

M bit back on a sharp remark and just gritted his teeth. His gaze bore into the brown eyes of his quartermaster, meeting nothing but professional distance and composure. That alone told him how serious it had been.

Tanner had been there when Q had almost broken down, when Bond had apparently died, and it must have been a traumatic death. Never before had the technopath displayed such signs of distress and never before had he been this flustered. Not that he had truly shown it, but for the two men it had been clear to see.

M had kept a close eye on his department head and he had seen how rattled Q had been, how bad this must have been. Whatever had taken out Bond, whatever it had done to him, it must have been horrifying.

Now he was looking at James Bond and he knew it had been beyond horrifying. The man had resurrected, but something had triggered him, had set him back a few years, though it wasn’t all too obvious.

Bond still looked deceptively calm and relaxed, but his expression was harder and even more distant. He wasn’t happy being here, talking to M at this stage of his recovery, and Mallory knew that sending him into the field would be a fatal mistake. He was convinced that Q could control the phoenix, but letting it lose now would spell trouble and disaster in so many ways. The preternatural was too tense and coiled up to attack.

“I want to know everything,” M said, leaning back in his chair, raising his eyebrows.

Bond smirked a little.

That didn’t bode well.

 

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next business trip is coming up, so no guarantees concerning free internet or a working one at that. Hotels are strange sometimes. Last one didn't have any connection for almost 24 hours, then it was so slow, you could walk your dog while it loaded AO3...
> 
> So have a large chunk now.

Two hours later Mallory watched the two men depart. He felt a faint headache coming up.

The debrief had been… interesting. No one would have been able to come up with this scenario.

Bond had always been an extraordinary man, a unique preternatural, but this… this topped everything.

“He’s either our greatest liability or our greatest weapon,” he said, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch.

“I’d say our most dangerous weapon.”

He glanced at Bill Tanner, then held out the tumbler. The Chief of Staff took it.

“He’s a weapon,” Tanner repeated, regarding his boss. “His preternatural side makes him the perfect one on top of that.”

M knew that. The perfect killer. The perfect assassin. The perfect tool to be used. And Q was this weapon’s balance, control and his handler. He had known from the start that this wouldn’t end with their connection. It had been the beginning and now evolution had caught up with them in a big way.

“He came back from the ashes,” Mallory remarked and sipped at the burning liquid.

Tanner looked slightly uncomfortable, but his expression was accepting. “It’s his ability.”

M shot him a wry look. “Don’t tell me you expected him to be able to pull himself together after this. 007 nearly got lost after less severe injuries.”

“He has a connection to his own anchor now,” Tanner reminded him. “No one expected it to work like it did, but we’re lucky it does.”

M studied the world outside, Buckingham Palace, the Thames, Big Ben. Yes, they were lucky. The two men had found a much more intimate, much closer, connection through their personal lives entwining as well. Knowing Bond’s file, knowing Q’s, Mallory wouldn’t have given the two men a snowball’s chance in hell at making it more than three months. They were too different.

But apparently not.

He smiled humorlessly.

No, maybe they weren’t that different. And maybe it was too easy to slot them into places they didn’t belong in.

He had given them two weeks to get back from this, to work through the trauma.

“Let’s see where we stand with him, with them, in two weeks time,” he said almost to himself.

Tanner grimaced and swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. “He won’t be any different, sir. I’ve known 007 for longer than I’d confess to. He’s a tough old dog and for a long time I didn’t know, couldn’t understand, how he withstood such abuse, mentally and physically. When I was told he is a phoenix, it became so much clearer. He won’t have changed, sir. He will be the same.”

“Aside from looking… like he had a full retread at some bloody spa.”

Tanner chuckled. “Aside from that. There will be rumors. There always are. Let them happen.”

Mallory raised an eyebrow. “Would I even have a chance if I fought it?”

“I doubt it, sir.”

So did M.

He would let it happen.

 

* * *

 

Q knew that asking James to see a psychologist or anyone in that profession, the agent would just close that particular door and never talk about it again. But he had been through more than ever before.

Q was there when Bond got up in the middle of the night, tossed back a drink or two, staring out the windows and seeing nothing but those returning images of the horror he had been through, trying to make sense of the emotional response he felt.

He refused to talk about it.

Well, so be it. Q wasn’t the nagging part in this relationship. He was the quartermaster and handler if they were on the job, and he was everything but that when they weren’t. He wouldn’t tell Bond what to do and who to see because he knew it was a fruitless endeavor.

So it came as a surprise when he found a siren standing in front of his flat. Ann was a tall, strawberry blonde woman with curly hair, one of MI6’s interrogators. Q had seen her a few times, but they had never worked together professionally and they had never met officially.

Ann’s profession as an interrogator was also called a confessor because as a siren it was very hard to resist her. Suspects would spill their guts, confess to their sins, if she got into their heads. Her voice would drop into that strange lilt, a sing-song undercurrent that wormed itself into the suspect’s brain. There were few who could resist a siren who used her abilities on a suspect.

Q knew that Bond was one of them. He wondered if it was a preternatural thing or because of what kind of preternatural he was. He wondered if she could influence him or not.

“Ann,” he greeted her courteously. “What can I do for you.”

She regarded him with a smile. “Q. I apologize in advance for coming to see you on your vacation.”

He shrugged, then looked around. “Have you had lunch?” he offered.

“No.”

“How about we grab a bite to eat then?”

Because he didn’t want her up in the flat. It was his private home. It was his and James’ place. No one else.

Ann smiled and agreed. They found a pub with a good lunch menu and ordered soups and sandwiches.

“May I inquire as to why you came to see me?” Q wanted to know.

She folded her hands. “007 approached me.”

He tilted his head a little.

“We talked,” she added.

“I have no doubt you did.”

And if he had decided to go a step further it must have been for a reason, Q told himself. He had never felt jealousy when James was on the job, though he didn’t linger and listen like a voyeur when 007 took his marks to bed.

Ann laughed. “Oh no, nothing like that. But I doubt I have to tell you how impossible it would be to sway him from your connection.”

Q raised his eyebrows. He didn’t say a thing as just about then their food arrived. They waited until the waiter was out of ear shot.

“I’m not a fool, Q. Not many at MI6 are. Some see your relationship, some think it’s a ruse, and very few know it’s so much more.”

He was silent.

“Bond came to me to talk about what happened to him. I know what he is. I will keep it in confidence.”

He studied her, refusing to fall into any kind of trap that would get him to spill it out in clear and simple words. So far Ann hadn’t really given away anything concrete.

“Why are you talking to me then?”

“Because what happened to him left 007 with an unprecedented case of fractured memories that are by now coalescing into a full recollection. You might know that I can’t influence him, and let me reassure you, I can’t get into your mind either, Q.”

He raised an eyebrow. She smiled brightly at him.

“So you tried.”

“About five times in the last thirty minutes.”

“Interesting.”

“Bond’s mind is a steel ball. His preternatural side refuses to be influenced or manipulated. I bounce back, so to speak. You have… a similar reaction. A bit more muted, not as aggressive, but there is nothing I can force you to do.”

Q mulled that over.

“I suspect you are a preternatural as well,” Ann went on, eating some chips that had come with the sandwich. “I don’t want to know what kind. What I do know is that you mean a lot to 007, that he trusts you, that he needs you.”

“He talked to you.”

The siren smiled again. “Since I don’t take you for the jealous type I’ll interpret that as a question as to the why. He’s trying to make sense of what happened. He needs someone to talk about some of those things, someone who isn’t close to him. And someone he can trust to keep his confidence, not write it down and file it away.”

“You.”

“You might want to look into my file, Q.”

He already had. It had been a matter of minutes in that last half hour and he had discovered that Ann Jennings, twenty-nine, born in Manchester, had a degree in psychology. She wasn’t just employed as an interrogator, but she was also deployed as a, for lack of a better word, sounding board if Double-Ohs needed to unwind. She never took any notes. She never filed a report. She was simply there, had an open ear.

A confessor of a different kind.

Her smile widened. “Of course you already know,” she stated.

“I thought you couldn’t get into my head.”

“I can’t. But I’m good at reading people, Q. I have to be. You know what I do, who I am.”

“I know your current persona,” he corrected her mildly.

“And if you dig deep enough you can find out who I really am.” She cocked her head a little. “It’s a matter of trust among colleagues. You, him, me. 007 is a man of many, many layers and aside from you, I doubt anyone knows them all. What happened to him, Q, was terrible. It was the worst a preternatural like him can experience. And knowing the myth I wouldn’t have placed any bets on his survival. But he did survive and he pulled himself back out of the abyss. He remembers the abyss.”

Q felt a tremor run through him.

“And he needed a different perspective. What he does on a daily basis for his country pales in comparison,” Ann went on. “I came because I know you are needed. I know you have to understand that the darkness within him has only one reason to still hang on to its sanity: you. You are his balance and his anchor and he needs you.”

“I know that already,” he told her evenly.

“Of course you do. But do you understand what you are, Q? Do you understand the damage that has been done to him and what he survived to come back as human as he is? Do you understand just how savage the pull was this time?”

He swallowed.

Ann’s expression was no longer amused or soft. Her eyes were intense, her posture serious.

“You brought him back.”

“His abilities did.”

“You anchor them. You felt it. He’s lodged deeply within you, Q. Unbreakable.”

Yes, he knew that. Yes, yes, yes. All of it.

“The confidence I keep concerns MI6,” she added. “Not the bonded partner, because what he is, you are, and vice versa. Your lives are interwoven so strongly, he latches on to you to pull himself out of the darkness. You felt it. You let him.”

Q leaned back, throat dry, feeling shaky. “How can you know?” he whispered harshly.

“Because he knows. He remembers.”

Blood rushed in his ears, his heart hammered in his chest. “He…?”

“He remembers you. He told me he followed you, the link to you, to get back. He went through the resurrection consciously. He felt you, Q. And he’s trying to come to terms with that.”

“But…” Q felt cold all of a sudden.

She leaned forward, gentle fingers touching his hand. “What he is… no one has known before existed for real. What you are is unimportant, only that you are the most important thing in his life. You bring him back, Q. You. He knows you intimately in that darkness. His preternatural is a vicious beast and it answers to you. It will always find you.”

Q balled his hands into fists, fighting down the irrational fear.

“He will tell you. In his own way. I suspect he knows we talked already. He never asked me to keep this from you, only to give him time to come to terms with it,” Ann added. “I told him that he has to open up that part of himself, has to let you in to understand. He agreed to let me decide whether or not I would talk to you, Q. I made my decision because you two have to work this out. Bond has to get through this. With you.”

He didn’t feel hungry any more. The sandwich was like a concrete block inside his stomach.

He remembered. James remembered. He had gone through the most traumatic, insane resurrection and he remembered…

“How can he even stay sane like this?” he whispered.

“The phoenix is a primordial, dark creature. The reason why we don’t know about many more is their self-destruction after a while. They can’t live alone. Finding a balancing partner is not easy. Many see it as a fantastic fire bird, others as a nightmarish monster. And because of what it is, because of what Bond is, none of his past, and future, deaths will drive him into insanity. Only the loss of his anchor would.”

Ann squeezed his wrist, then pulled back with a soft smile.

“You. Only you. He followed your call, your presence. That’s how it is now. He relies fully on you and this first time truly disturbed him. You don’t really understand how deep this goes, do you?”

“No one can understand something that is unprecedented,” he replied, fighting for distance.

Ann agreed with a nod. “Bond told me that you two have some time off from work. I’d advise you take this time and go somewhere. Away from here.”

“And talk?” he asked sarcastically.

Because Bond wasn’t a great talker. That he had made an appointment with the siren was amazing in so many ways.

She laughed softly. “I doubt you two are going to spill your souls to one another. And I doubt it’s necessary. Like I said, there are layers. Bond is far more receptive to this connection between you than he wants to confess or even understand. What I would recommend is that you get out of here because you need a different kind of scenery. He has to work through something akin to a maelstrom of dark memories. He has to be somewhere where he can let go, Q. And that isn’t here.”

Ann signaled that she wanted to pay and Q dug out his wallet as well. They were out of the pub not much later, strolling through the streets. When they arrived at the Thames, the siren leaned against the stone banister.

“You two are very special, Q. I can see it when you work together. You mean the world to him.”

He refused to be baited. Deep inside he knew that they were into this to the end.

“I can see it in you when he is on a mission,” she added. “You are so very good together. I wanted you to hear this from a third person, someone without an interest in you in any way.”

He grimaced and she chuckled.

“Not that you wouldn’t be a catch for anyone else, too.” Ann smiled. “Find some place,” she repeated. “Go there. Let him work on achieving his balance again. He isn’t human and his mind isn’t in any danger, Q. His preternatural side enables him to compartmentalize and accept the resurrection and everything with it. He won’t lose it over this. I’m sure of it.”

“Because of that steel ball?”

She lifted a corner of her mouth. “Maybe. But I think it’s his nature. We are equipped to deal what our abilities give us. What I do has its backlashes as well, Q. I see more than I really want to, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m not completely human and my brain can work through this.”

Like he was a technopath and could work inside an electronic environment without turning insane. He could do it naturally and his mind was equipped to handle whatever was thrown at it. He might get headaches when he overdid it, but he didn’t get nightmares either.

Q nodded. “I think I understand.”

“I think you do. Now go home. Get time away from here.”

“Thank you, Ann.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned and walked away from him, soon disappearing in the crowd. Q went home, taking the long route, mulling over what he had heard.

 

* * *

 

“She talked to you.”

Of course Bond would know. Either because he had trailed Q, which Q wouldn’t put past him, or because it was just something he had known would happen.

Probably the latter.

Ann had mentioned it, too.

“Yes, she did. And I’m happy you talked to her.” Q hung up his coat.

“Better than Hall.”

“Dr. Hall is a professional.”

“Professional pain the arse,” Bond growled.

“He’s a certified psychologist.”

Bond scowled. Q smiled back and walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Bond leaned in the doorway, watching him, all lean lines and understated danger.

“She’s a confessor. I thought I’d see if she’d keep her word.”

“She has. Nothing you told her will go on record. She also seems to know quite a lot about your preternatural status.”

An almost careless shrug answered him. “Like you said: she won’t put it on record. And if she does, I suspect you can erase any trace.”

“Of course,” Q replied, a touch of haughtiness in his voice.

Bond’s mouth curled in that small smile. “Of course.”

They waited silently for the water to boil, then Q poured it over his tea bag and let the tea steep. Only when it was done and he removed the tea bag and carried the mug outside did Bond move. They ended up on the couch again.

“You remember,” the technopath said neutrally.

Bond’s eyes grew a little distant, harder. “Yeah.”

“All of it.”

A sharp nod.

“And you think I brought you back?” Q tried, treading carefully.

The expression was almost frightening. It was so intense, so animalistic, so much the primal thing in James’ soul, and still so very much James himself.

“You did. I knew you were there. I… pulled from you, pulled myself to you.”

Q sat stunned. He remembered the sudden displacement he had felt, like he had been close to a collapse, low blood pressure, low blood sugar, something like that. It had been a moment, nothing serious, nothing that couldn’t be attributed to stress.

“And you felt it,” Bond said, voice low and somehow close to broken.

“I’m not sure…”

The eyes silenced him. Maybe it had been that moment. Maybe he had felt the phoenix’s first breath, the launch of the preternatural in its battle against death.

“I know I felt you. You brought me back, Q.”

He touched the strong, calloused hands, wrapped their fingers together. Bond came willingly when Q tugged a little, and suddenly he straddled the technopath’s lap, looming over him, very intent, very intense, very… Bond.

There was nothing else to talk about. There was nothing to discuss regarding what had happened. Q would try and analyze what it meant, what could have happened, but somehow it didn’t feel important. There was no reference material, there was no other known phoenix to compare James to. There was no other technopath either.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

He would make his notes in his laptop, he would put a few more locks on the machine, and he would keep an eye on matters, should it happen again.

 

tbc...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. As I had suspected: crappy Internet in the hotel. Add to that that I didn't get the job I had applied for (let's just say I hate company politics!) and I wasn't in the mood to do much story-wise. 
> 
> Anyway, have some chapter! :)

“Do you ski?” Bond asked, voice more of a rumble as he nuzzled against Q’s neck.

“Do I look like I do?” he replied.

It got him a little nip and a chuckle. “Switzerland is nice this time of the year.”

“For skiing.”

“I could teach you.”

Q groaned. “No. I like all my bones intact.”

“We could skip skiing and go to the fun stuff immediately.”

Bond trailed little bites and kisses along his neck and to his jaw, then finally captured Q’s lips to swallow his protesting reply.

“Or Austria,” he added when they came up for air. “Or somewhere warm and sunny?”

“I also don’t tan.”

By now Bond’s fingers had worked under his shirt and were trailing over his skin. Shirt sleeves hung out of Q’s pants and he was getting uncomfortably harder.

“Where do you propose we spend our two weeks, quartermaster?”

“East Coast US?”

Bond drew back and his blue eyes sparked. There was a smirk crossing his features. “East Coast? Anywhere in particular?”

“I heard New York was nice this time of the year.”

Bond laughed and kissed him. “Maybe.”

“And I think we can get an excellent deal on hotel prices.”

“You know the owner of one?”

“Maybe,” Q replied playfully.

The kiss was deeper this time, Bond pushing fully against the slender form to plunder his mouth, his hands everywhere. Q closed his eyes as those hands found his hardening prick and freed it, then James suddenly slid down his body.

It might not be the most elegant setting, but it was bloody good and damn well blew his mind, along with his prick.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Whittmore has accepted the invitation?”

Finch turned and schooled his features to not openly, and appreciatively, stare at the expanse of naked skin not far away. Reese’s shirt was hanging open and he didn’t look like he was about to button it up.

“Indeed he has.”

Reese came over to him, lithe and near-silent in every move. Finch admired the sensuous moves, and he appreciated the caresses even more. Strong fingers brushed over his neck, his cheek, then played with the short hair.

“Anything we need to take care of after our last number?” John asked, a glint in his eyes that had Finch shiver inside.

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Reese. The Machine hasn’t given me anything new.”

“Hm, good.”

The last number had been quite taxing, since they had tried to skirt around the FBI agent involved. That Peter Burke hadn’t followed up on the man who had saved his wife’s life had been a miracle all on its own. That the con man and criminal at his side, who was also working for the FBI and seemed to be close to the Burkes, had turned out to be a preternatural had been a surprise.

Though maybe not. He was a master forger and art thief. He was one of the best and those talented thieves were usually preternaturally inclined.

“Though I was planning to take care of business,” Harold remarked.

The curl of Reese’s lips was a mixture of amusement and seduction. Finch refused to be baited. They had been taking it slow, the development of their relationship not exactly glacial, but also not at the speed of light. Small steps leading into the right direction, learning more about each other in a new way. Finch knew Reese was tactile if he let his shields drop. He liked to touch, to be near his handler, to brush by him, closer now than ever before. Finch in turn had to remind himself to drop his own shields, one by one, let the other man in. Reese was quick on the uptake, intelligent, sharp, and he seemed to sense when to push forward and when to back off.

Right now he was doing both. He was an enticing sight, even if Finch had seen him in all states of dress and undress and even naked before. Mostly bleeding and held together by staples, stitches and bandages. Not the most erotic of settings. But Reese was a very handsome man, with a glint, a dangerous edge, something that shone through for those who knew what to look for. He could be charming and suave, but he was a killer underneath, a predator.

Strangely enough, Finch was never afraid of that part. Had never been either.

“Want some company?” Reese now offered.

Finch rose. “It would be appreciated, Mr. Reese.”

Then he leaned into the hellhound’s personal space, hands curling into the lapels. The kiss was slow, deep, and long. Reese’s hand slid over Finch’s suit jacket, then underneath, over the smooth, silky material of his waistcoat.

Finch saw a ring of silver around the intense blue eyes and smiled. Reese seemed to be vibrating with energy, but he wasn’t acting, only reacting. The hellhound in him wanted more, but Reese was holding back.

“Harold?”

He knew he was staring. Into those fascinating eyes, into the handsome face of his agent and partner.

“John,” he answered, his mouth dry.

It got him a smile, slow, lazy, knowing. Reese drew his hand over the front of the waistcoat, stopping at the bottom line. He gave Finch a moment, then leaned in for another, probing kiss.

“Business, Mr. Reese,” Finch reminded him, though there was a flush to his skin.

“I think we’re getting there.”

He knew John was giving him time to retreat, to set his own pace, but right now, in this very moment, Finch realized he was very ready for the next step. It must have been clear to see because the slow smile grew. Nimble fingers unbuttoned the waistcoat and didn’t stop at the suit pants.

The deep blue eyes were fixed on Finch’s, bright, alert for any change of mind.

Harold had no change of mind. Actually, as he leaned against his work desk, fingers curling around the table top, he couldn’t stop his wonder and amazement at the man going down on him with such passion and skill.

It spoke of his long dry run that he spilled embarrassingly fast.

“Passionate, Harold,” Reese rumbled as he rose, lithe and deadly and purely the predator he was.

“It’s been a while,” he murmured.

It got him a grin. Reese licked his lips and adjusted himself a little.

“John, let me…”

The preternatural leaned in, nuzzling against his jaw. “You’re not the only one,” he murmured.

“I… what?” Apparently his braincells had blown out.

“I should take a shower.” Reese smiled mischievously. “And so should you.”

Finch watched the other man walk away, all grace and danger, and he exhaled softly. Yes, he needed a shower, and the small bathroom of the library wouldn’t do.

“Harold?”

The voice echoed a little, still low and enticing in its own way.

“Forgot anything, Mr. Reese?”

“You.”

He stared at the hellhound.

“My place is closer.”

“Well, yes.” Of course Finch knew where Reese lived. He had given him the loft. It had been a gift without strings attached.

He started moving without actually thinking about it. Yes, his brain was mush. From a short but erotic blowjob by the man who had bound himself to the cipher. He had known what he was getting into by allowing this closeness, and so far it had been beneficial for both of them, but this was more intense than he had ever believed it could be.

A blowjob.

Finch cursed softly, then locked down his work station, gathered his coat, and limped after Reese.

They left the library together and Reese hailed them a cab.

 

* * *

 

New York it had been. Eight hours after take-off they touched down at 7:30 p.m., snow falling softly from the dark sky. A limousine drove them to their hotel, The Coronet, and Bond raised an eyebrow when they were handed the key to the penthouse suite.

“Connections, Mr. Whittmore?”

“Very good connections, Mr. Bond.”

They explored the luxurious suite and Q smiled as he opened the card attached to the fruit basket that had come with a bottle of very expensive champagne.

‘Welcome, Mr. Kian Whittmore, Mr. James Bond. Enjoy your stay’ was written on the card.

Oh, they would.

Bond opened his suitcase and started to unpack. They had ten days and they both wanted to enjoy their time, explore the city, and Q was sure that Finch would be in contact with him soon.

And speak of the devil, an email popped up. As a technopath he didn’t need a laptop, though he had carried his own along. The suite allowed setting up a work station, which he would do.

He sent back his answer and Finch wished him a good night. They would meet tomorrow for dinner at 7:30.

“Hungry?” Bond asked as he came up behind Q and pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Actually, not really. More tired than anything else. And we have a dinner date tomorrow.”

“Double date?” his partner teased.

He chuckled. “Maybe. Finch told me he made reservations at a restaurant called The Grand at 7:30.”

“Sounds good.” The Double-Oh nuzzled Q’s neck, all warmth and strength against Q’s back. It felt very nice. “Let’s get some sleep.”

“Sounds good.” Q grinned and stepped out of the embrace, only to kiss his partner. “I need a shower first.”

Suggestive eyebrows rose.

“You’re a nightmare, 007,” he murmured.

“I aim to please, quartermaster.”

 

tbc...


	12. Chapter 12

He should have known. Sit down two geek tech heads and the topic of conversation became computers. Or a variation thereof. Q was no different and he and Finch had a lot to talk about. Not just tech, though. There was also the preternatural side of their existence and Bond’s resurrection that had resulted in so many small and not so small changes.

The Grand was a nice little restaurant, the food was very good, and the secluded seating arrangement assured privacy. No one was listening in and the security cameras would not pick them up. His technopath had taken care of that.

Reese looked amused, one eyebrow rising at the rather animated conversation between their two handlers.

“I should have known,” he remarked quietly.

“Probably.”

They finally drifted over to the bar, leaving the two men to discuss whatever the current topic was.

::It’s you:: Q told him through the ear piece Bond had insisted on wearing when he muttered the question, too low for anyone to hear.

Well, anyone but a hellhound, who had very good ears. Reese was giving him a tiny smile.

“Beer?” the former CIA agent asked.

Bond nodded. He wouldn’t listen in on the discussion and he was sure Q had tuned him out as well, disconnecting from the earpiece.

Reese regarded him silently, eyes alert, features neutral. Bond just sipped his beer, quirking an eyebrow.

They were men of few words.

 

*

 

Finch gave Q an amused look and the technopath grimaced. “Habit.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Just like I suppose Mr. Reese is wearing his own.”

“Habit,” Finch agreed. He stirred his coffee. “How have you two fared?”

It was an intimate question in so many ways, but no more than so many had been before. Since their first meeting the relationship between the two very unlikely handler-agent teams had developed in leaps. Q was still astounded by it all and he knew Finch wasn’t someone to trust easily either.

But the CIA case, the death of Kara Stanton, the truth about Bond and Q himself, it had all conspired to forge a foundation between them that had by now surpassed that early state of wary truce and blossomed into something more. Q still didn’t know everything he wished about Harold Finch, aside from the fact that he was a billionaire, didn’t exist in the world of the living, was a preternatural, and that his network of lives and aliases was astounding. Only one thing was a common denominator: he was always Harold.

“It appears that these events didn’t have an adverse effect,” Q now replied. “Aside from slightly altered appearances.”

Finch smiled briefly. “I see.”

“I’m just…leery of the next time.”

“Which will happen.”

Q shrugged. “Of course. It’s him. It’s how he lives and acts. You can’t stop the phoenix from taking risks, from wanting the thrill. Death is the ultimate thrill for it. I know it’s hard for anyone to understand how he can so willingly give his life, but it’s the nature of the beast. It’s what destroys a phoenix so quickly. It wants what ultimately annihilates it.” Q was silent for a moment. “In the book you scanned for me the author theorizes about that.”

Finch nodded. “I read about it. The phoenix eventually ends its own life, because it can’t exist without a bonded partner to keep it sane. It’s the only solution for a cursed existence. The book was written in a time when preternaturals were seen as either gifted or cursed.”

“They still are. I would just never call it a curse. The phoenix controls its own life, down to the very last breath when it surrenders to the inevitable before insanity.”

“Probably the best theory I’ve read anywhere,” Finch agreed. “Mr. Bond has found you. Just in time, I might say.”

Q didn’t want to think about losing the man he was bound to. He glanced over at the bar, the two so very alike men who were their agents sharing another beer and talking amiably.

“He has grown stronger,” Finch could be heard. “To come back from physical destruction takes a lot. A lot of energy.”

Q refused to blush. “Yes. A lot.”

Finch grinned knowingly and the quartermaster almost rolled his eyes.

“I always knew, though,” he added. “I feel him with me, Harold. I feel his pull when he gets me out of an accidental zone-out. I can’t describe it. He’s there. A solid weight, a fact.”

Finch regarded him silently. “I think I understand. And from what I gleaned from the hours spent reading all those ancient books I believe he couldn’t have done what he did without the anchor line to you. You made him this powerful, Kian.”

Q regarded the other man, aware that Finch had never addressed him with his first name before. It was part of his alias, Kian Whittmore, used when he was interacting with people outside of MI6, and like Finch’s, part of it was true.

He smiled. “Like he gave me stability and sanity.”

Finch smiled back and raised the mug of coffee to sip from it.

“You haven’t taken that leap of faith yet,” Q added, tilting his head a little, lips lifting into a small smile.

Finch set down the mug, fingers curling around it. “I have taken more leaps than I ever expected, Mr. Whittmore. Some of them quite frightening.”

“This isn’t a case.”

“Yes. And no. It’s a difficult situation.”

“Not so difficult, really. You can work better with him as a connector. You can rely on Mr. Reese. You already did before. You trust him, Harold. This isn’t more than you asked of yourself before.”

“Like I said: yes and no.”

Q studied the older man and he knew the two men had taken slow steps into this new variation of their partnership. He also knew that Reese was the most patient of agents in that regard, that he would wait for Finch to make up his mind and not push him. His loyalty was without question; his trust was complete. Finch had already let go in some regard, but to work with his preternatural ability as he had before, to touch The Machine again and maybe crack the door open a little more, he needed Reese in a different way.

Q still didn’t know what had happened to Finch, or to Harold Wren, or to whoever he might have been at the time. He had been Harold, but the last name varied. Q had come to understand that Finch was just one of the many aliases this man possessed and had lived under for all his life. He was insanely rich, he owed not just a hotel or an insurance company or software developers, he was more like a spider in a web, invisible and easily mistaken for something else. He controlled assets that could buy small countries.

“It takes time,” Finch now said slowly.

Q nodded. His gaze flitted over to Bond. Sometimes things had to run their way. For Finch, every step was a major leap. He had to open up his world, maybe even all of himself, and he had to trust in Reese as completely as the other man already did in the cipher.

Their conversation drifted through topics, sometimes brushing over The Machine, but nothing concrete. In the end they paid and left The Grand.

It was just past midnight and Q felt pleasantly full, slightly more warm than he should be after two glasses of wine, and relaxed.

“Enjoy your vacation,” Reese remarked, a tiny smile on his lips.

Bond’s expression was one of carefully veiled amusement, but it was clear he could read between the lines. Reese followed as Finch limped off toward a cab he had hailed. A silent, protective shadow.

 

 

“I believe they have come a long way,” Q remarked as they walked through the streets, the cold air nipping at their skin.

The East Coast was still under the spell of winter. More snow had been announced for the next three days, but since it was their vacation, Q didn’t mind. Now and then flakes drifted from the sky, but nothing stayed on the streets just yet.

Bond shot him an amused look. “Got more intimate intel, Q?”

He gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “I’d never pry, 007.”

“Of course not.”

“But I know Finch has taken a chance on Reese and Reese was ready to place more than just his trust in his handler. If I understood the cryptic remarks correctly, he has bound himself to Finch.”

“Good.”

They continued their walk, hands stuffed into their coats. Q had wrapped a thick, warm scarf around his neck.

 

* * *

 

John Reese gazed at the sleeping man with him in bed. Harold was dressed in dark green pajamas that had probably cost more than the wardrobe Reese preferred throughout his daily adventures. The glasses were off, carefully folded and sitting on the nightstand. He looked peaceful, relaxed, trusting.

Reese smiled softly.

Nothing had happened tonight, aside from a very good dinner, entertaining and very interesting company, and slow, intense kissing.

Slow.

It was what they did in their more personal relationship and it served him just as well. John’s last relationship had ended in death; Finch’s in his own, faked demise. Two damaged men with injured souls, trying to forge something together.

His smile grew and he lay down, close enough to feel the body heat of the other man. His preternatural side was happy. He was happy. It felt normal to belong here, to be here, without demands or expectations. He was a hellhound, a guardian and protector, and he had willingly bound himself for life to this special person.

He had made the right choice.

Harold had been his second chance. He had taken it and it had been the right decision.

His second chance, his new life. His partner.

Reese closed his eyes, feeling his body and mind relax. He let himself doze off into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Ten days in New York went by faster than Q would have expected. He and Bond did some touristy stuff, but they also slid into two cases Reese and Finch were handling. When another number came up, Bond just shrugged and took it on himself. Q went with the flow, logged himself into the network, and guided his partner through the safe-keeping of a young girl working in a coffee shop, who had come up as the next person of interest.

By the end of the first week they had saved the girl, eliminated the jealous ex-boyfriend, and had been introduced to Detectives Carter and Fusco. Carter had just sighed.

“You’re that MI6 agent, aren’t you? The one who asked for John a while back.”

Bond had simply shrugged.

“And now you’re working with him? How did that happen?”

“Coincidence.”

Carter had looked far from believing that. Q couldn’t fault her, but he was highly amused by her grudging acceptance of another interloper.

“Well, that was fun,” Bond proclaimed when he came home, looking a bit disheveled from his altercation with their target, though he wasn’t bleeding. A big plus, Q mused, when it came to the phoenix.

And he looked very much alive. Very. The energy was almost palpable.

This was what the preternatural side wanted, This was the kind of kick it needed. The thrill, the danger, the adrenaline rush. James Bond would never be anyone else, would never be able to do a nine-to-five deskjob.

“Finch sends his thanks for the assist,” Q now said, watching James undress.

There was a bruise over the left ribcage that looked painful, and one on his upper left thigh where he had been kicked. Nothing new. And, well, truly no blood.

“New number, Q?” Bond asked, eyes gleaming with the still abating rush.

“No. They’re wrapping up theirs. We have a free evening.”

Bond smiled. “Too bad.”

“I knew you would find a normal vacation boring.”

“Finch offered, you know.”

Q leaned back. “I’m aware of it.”

“It’s tempting.”

“For vacations?” he teased.

Bond chuckled. “Maybe.”

“Or are you planning a change in careers, Mr. Bond?”

The Double-Oh draped his shirt over the chair. The blue eyes were filled with an energy that told of the fun he had had, the remnants of the rush of the chase.

“Not yet.”

“Good. I was hoping not to set the record for the youngest quartermaster of MI6 history and the one who left after the shortest time.”

Bond smiled and walked over to him, pulling him close, kissing his neck affectionately. “They wouldn’t be able to function without you.”

“Only too true.”

“And Finch’s offer has no due date.”

“Good.”

“It’s an option.”

A good one. One that gave them a way out, but knowing Bond it might not be enough. Then again… He had read what Finch and Reese had been handling, and there were the kicks and thrills and the adrenaline the phoenix needed, coupled with violence and death sometimes.

“An option,” Q murmured.

 

tbc...


	13. Chapter 13

While they did some touristy New York walks, getting to know the city from Finch’s point of view was a lot more interesting, especially when Q let himself see it from The Machine’s eyes. He had had little contact with Finch’s creation, though it was literally everywhere, and he tried not to give in to the burning curiosity. It was dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

Bond knew, of course. Q didn’t have to say a word and his partner still knew. He sometimes brushed a hand over Q’s, bumped their shoulders together, or initiated physical touch in another way.

Q had met Finch for lunch in a hotel located near Central Park. It was a very good lunch and he had enjoyed himself. Conversation had, as always, been multi-themed and had finally turned to preternatural lore and myths.

“There are several titles I’ve been meaning to buy,” Finch told Q as they walked through Central Park. “They are very hard to find and even harder to acquire. Other collectors don’t always part with them.”

Q raised an eyebrow.

Bond and Reese were… somewhere. Doing their agent thing. Q playfully piggy-backed on the security cameras and challenged himself with finding the two men. Finch shot him amused looks.

“You researched the phoenix,” the quartermaster remarked.

“It’s an interesting topic. Ciphers and hellhounds are normal.” He smiled, turning his head a little as he limped on. “The internet can only give you so much information. Sometimes you have to go back to the roots.”

“Books.”

Finch smiled. “Books have been there before the internet.”

Q chuckled. “Indeed. What did you find?”

“I found who had the books.”

“Had?”

Another half-turned head with a mischievous smile. “I also found someone who can get me what I need.”

Q raised an eyebrow.

“One of our numbers was the wife of an FBI agent. He in turn had a partner who is a world-class forger, art thief and con man.”

“Ah.”

“He also happens to be a preternatural.”

Q gave him a humorless smile. “Thief, you said? A master?”

Finch chuckled, limping over to a bench where he sat down. Q joined him, eyes roaming the park around them. No sign of Bond and Reese.

“He’s a harpy?” he asked.

Finch nodded, an appreciative look in his eyes.

“Not hard to guess,” the younger man added with a shrug. “Most successful master forgers and master thieves are.”

“And Mr. Caffrey has an extraordinary talent. As does his colleague. Both are harpies.”

Harpies were always very talented, near-perfect thieves. It wasn’t a legit excuse in court and the justice system treated them as they did every criminal.

And not all harpies were criminally inclined.

They weren’t as rare as one would think and they were not solely female. Myths and legends were one thing; the real thing another. Like all preternaturals they couldn’t shape-change, so no wings, no feathers, no bird-like features. Neither did they look different in their human guise. They weren’t ugly or terrifying to look at. Some were rather handsome.

The preternaturals had gotten their misnomer from the original meaning of their name: that which snatches. They had nothing in common with annoying, nasty women from myths and legends of old. While many would claim thieves had more characteristics of the foxes, those shape-changers had no relations to harpies. They were mostly found in politics due to their natural ability to bend the rules with words and get away with empty promises. Those not inclined to trick with words but deed became magicians and illusionists. Some very famous ones had made it to Vegas.

“He’s working with the FBI now?” Q asked.

“After he was finally caught.” Finch smiled a little. “Agent Burke is a very persistent man. He also happens to be a fury.”

Q’s interest rose immediately. Furies were far from vengeful goddesses. Usually myths served to hide the true nature of a creature. Harpies, furies, the phoenix. All of them weren’t what writers had made of them.

Furies existed in both genders and were drawn into careers like bail or bounty hunting, which they were insanely good at. They were dogged in their pursuit of a criminal and couldn’t be swayed. That one was an FBI agent was surprising. They rarely had the civility to work within a set system of rules.

He mentioned it to Finch.

“After getting to know Mrs. Burke,” the older man said with a fine smile, “I believe she is vital in keeping him calm and even.”

“Preternatural?”

“No, I’d call it love.”

That had Q chuckle.

“So Mr. Caffrey agreed to get you some very rare titles?”

“His associate has. Mr. Caffrey is limited in his activities due to Agent Burke, though that hasn’t stopped his nature completely. No one can tame a harpy and Burke knows it. He has given his partner quite some leeway in some regards already. I approached his associate with an offer. I’m lucky that money can bait almost any harpy into acquiring what I need.”

“Illegal activities, Harold? I’m shocked.”

Q wasn’t surprised by the low, soft rumble. Reese was silent, but he had also been on camera. Q liked to stretch his technopathic muscles and Central Park was a good place to hop through the feeds. He discovered Bond not far away, leisurely dressed in jeans and a dark, woolen coat. He looked relaxed, at ease, though his expression was vigilant.

Finch turned as much as he was able to with his stiff neck. “I find it hard to believe that I can still shock you, Mr. Reese.”

Q smiled briefly. “I’d appreciate anything you can send me,” he told Finch.

Finch glanced at him. “Of course. I wouldn’t keep it to myself.”

“Thank you.”

Bond had drifted closer, the blue eyes like cubes of ice. Q rose after saying his good-byes and the two men easily fell in step, leaving Central Park and strolling through the crowds.

 

* * *

 

It was almost ten in the evening when Finch limped into the art gallery. It was more of a studio, really. Aspiring artists trying to make a living. Not that the man Finch was about to meet had such ambitions. He was an artist in his own right, of course. A forger of the highest class, but he didn’t need such an open location to work his own breed of magic. He lived and worked in the dark, in the shadows, and no one would ever know what he had done or created.

Finch closed the door after himself and looked around the small studio. Hardwood floors, white walls with different paintings in different styles, a few free standing sculptures, all lit up discretely. It wasn’t a large studio, but the paintings and sculptures were tasteful.

“Mr. Crane?”

Harold turned and looked at the man who was no taller than him. Balding quickly, bespectacled, looking as harmless as Finch himself, Mozzie appeared no more the art forger than Finch did the computer genius.

“Mr. Haversham,” he greeted him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again, actually, but since you helped save Mrs. Suit, and Neal in a way, here I am personally.”

“Anonymous services rendered would have been acceptable as well,” Finch said neutrally.

Mozzie regarded him closely. “Like I said, you helped Mrs. Suit. I’m not sure who and what you are, Mr. Crane, or what your partner is doing all the time, but you’re in a business that might suit me one day, too.”

Finch gave him a brief smile.

“You have an interest in mythical preternaturals as well. I know you know what Neal is, so I guess it’s a hobby?”

Finch just regarded him calmly, refusing to be baited into any kind of conversation regarding his interests. “I believe you have checked that your payment has arrived, Mr. Haversham. The books?”

Mozzie’s high forehead wrinkled a little, then he placed his bag on the table that was usually used as a cashier’s desk in case someone wanted to buy a painting. He was visibly biting back on asking more questions. The man had a fine sense of when someone would really talk and when he was going too far.

The cipher pulled out the books and carefully inspected them. They were the real deal. He hadn’t expected anything less from Caffrey’s associate. He was sure word would get back to the younger man about the successful transaction. While Finch had no plans to uphold any kind of regular relationship with either man, knowing they were here in New York and capable of assisting in matters of a more illegal matter in the world of art and forgery might come in handy another time.

“Thank you,” Finch said politely and rose.

Reese melted out of the shadows the moment he left the gallery. It actually came as no surprise that the hellhound had apparently followed him. It had been kind of their game in the beginning. By now Finch appreciated the silent, invisible shadow.

When he glanced back into the gallery, Mozzie was gone. Reese’s eyes swept over the evening crowds, then he hailed a cab and the two men got inside.

“You paid a small fortune for a few old tomes?” Reese broke the amiable silence between them when they were finally back in the library.

“Very valuable tomes, Mr. Reese.” Finch placed them carefully onto the table. “I believe they will prove to be more than valuable concerning Mr. Bond.”

“And they will look good on your shelves.”

He chuckled. “They will indeed.”

Reese was close and Finch was drawn between pulling him even closer for a kiss and not giving in to the pull he felt when it came to the other preternatural.

A whine saved him from making a decision. A wet nose pushed against his hand as Bear sat down beside him, giving Finch and expectant look.

“Time to play, Harold?” Reese teased, voice low and soft and hitting some buttons Finch hadn’t been aware of having any longer. Or at all.

“He might be begging for treats,” he told his partner. “Because you keep spoiling him.”

Reese’s smile was bright and happy. It gave Finch a little thrill to know that the man had come this far, that he could actually feel like this again.

Reese picked up the chewed-up tennis ball and Bear’s attention was riveted to the toy. His whole body thrummed with expectation.

When the ball was thrown, the Belgian Malinois waited obediently. Reese smiled, then gave the command and he dashed off.

Finch’s lips curled into a little smile as he watched man and dog play, then limped to his chair and sat down to read his new acquisitions.

He knew he would probably give in to his growing attraction to Reese later. Much later. In his own, slow way. He was learning to let the other man in, though. And Reese was a good teacher.

A very good one.

 

* * *

 

Q had chosen a small tea shop for their meeting and Finch looked faintly amused. The room was small, crowded with tables in different styles, the chairs just as mismatched, each one decorated with a different table cloth. Since Easter was coming up the main theme was of course bunnies, colorful eggs, little chicks and spring flowers. Daffodils and tulips in tiny vases had been placed on every table.

“I haven’t been here before,” the cipher said, looking around the quaint little shop.

It wasn’t part of a chain, offered a multitude of teas, served in flowery cups, some with cute animals on them, or dots, or hearts and the like, and it had homemade cakes and pies.

All in all it was nice. And the prices were reasonable.

Q ordered a black tea flavored with an interesting mixture, and a scone. Finch decided on a variation of green tea and picked out four small cookies.

“Thank you for an enjoyable stay,” Q said when the tea had been placed on their table and the server had left. “We had an interesting week with our, well, extracurricular activities.”

Finch chuckled. “Nothing you can book through a travel agency.”

“Even though adventure tours are very popular.”

“I believe Mr. Bond did truly enjoy himself. I know Mr. Reese did.”

Q smiled. “Perfect vacation. For both of us, I have to say. I have been able to train in a different, very challenging environment.”

Finch studied him.

“I didn’t touch it. It would be too dangerous,” the technopath said calmly. “I know my limits and just watching it, seeing it through the barrier, tells me I would most likely drown and be torn to pieces within seconds. You created something incredible, Harold. It’s there, it knows who and what you are, and it protects you and John.”

The older man seemed to pale a little, then studied his tea.

“You never truly went back.” Q met the shadowed eyes.

“I can’t. It would endanger everything.”

“But you have a backdoor. No one would register your entry. It would let you in.”

“Something still might get out.”

Q was silent for a moment. “You fear Root.”

Now Harold did pale. “She is a formidable opponent.”

“One who wants The Machine. To set it free, you said. But should she ever break the barriers, it wouldn’t be as she imagines it. It’s still developing. I wouldn’t even call it a child. It’s nothing you can compare to a human being, a human mind. It’s somewhere between sentience and self-awareness, but neither of both, really. It’s your code, Harold. It’s part of you and it would only ever turn to you.”

Finch stirred his tea. “It was how I met Grace.”

Q frowned a little.

“Grace Hendricks is an artist I… met. A long time ago,” Finch said haltingly. “Because of The Machine.”

The quartermaster raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I thought it was a glitch. I was still… training it, you could say. I was running the program, seeing if it really would work as I had intended it to do. The Machine directed me to Grace. I believed it to be a glitch and I corrected it.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. I was led back to her. I didn’t understand it back them, but now, so many years later, I do.”

“It selected her. For you.”

Finch nodded. “Yes.”

The technopath smiled. “And it worked.”

Harold mirrored the smile. “It did. For a while. But then… things changed and I had to leave her and everything else behind.”

Q looked at the older man, studying the pale features. Finch looked drawn as memories came back, probably memories of what had happened to him, what had injured him, leaving him partially crippled. It had been a time when the man he had been had died. Q had tried to dig deeper once, but Harold Finch had wiped his tracks, had become so many people that he probably didn’t even know who he was any more either.

“She believes I died in an accident.”

“You never went back?”

Finch sighed. “I did. I shouldn’t have. But she was someone special, Q. Someone I had hopes of sharing my life with. She didn’t know who I really was, but I had wanted to be someone for her, after everything concerning my program was said and done. I never could.”

“The Machine pushed you her way,” the technopath said softly. “It knew you two were compatible. I believe it did the same again. With John.”

Finch looked up sharply.

“It watches out for you, Harold. It needs you, it wants you safe and… happy.” He quirked a little smile again. “I really do believe it would let you in.”

“The Machine is much more than what I access sometimes. And it’s not even access. I receive the irrelevant list. As for our communication…” He shook his head. “The Machine I can still see, the part that I’m in contact with, is tiny compared to what the program really is.”

“What you access is the important part, Harold. It is the part that learns and evolves.”

Finch was silent, refusing to get deeper into the subject matter. They switched topics, even briefly went over the case of Elisabeth Burke, the woman who had tamed a fury and who was friends with two harpies.

 

 

They left the tea shop a little after five, taking a cab to the hotel Q and Bond were staying at. As they stood outside, Q was aware of the security camera on him, the red light flaring briefly.

He smiled.

Finch cocked his head, then glanced at the camera. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was thoughtful.

“Have a pleasant journey home,” the cipher finally said.

Q held out his hand and Finch took it. “Thank you. We’ll be in contact.” He smiled.

Finch mirrored the smile. “Of course.”

Then both men parted, Finch limping off down the street. Q watched him for a moment longer, then turned and walked into the hotel. He knew he was being watched and this time he didn’t block the signal.

 

* * *

 

They came back home three days before the end of their enforced downtime. Clothes were put in the washer, the fridge refilled, the network checked. It was routine, but still, in a way it wasn’t.

Because a day after coming back, James Bond finally gave up his rental place. There was little he called his own, even less that was truly important to him. A few personal items, some documents, nothing more. One of those items was his father’s old hunting rifle.

Q hadn’t been truly surprised. Almost all of James’ clothes were in his bedroom, their bedroom, already. There were a lot of expensive suits, dress shirts and leather shoes. But also what Q teasingly called ‘normal clothes’. Jeans, t-shirts, sweaters. Bond had his own laptop, his own office space.

It had been only a matter of time.

One of Bond’s arguments had been Q’s safety if a Double-Oh lived with him.

“I’m safe,” the quartermaster had told him sternly. “This place is safer than any other private home. You know I have measures in place to fight off a break-in. I also know how to shoot.”

It had gotten him a smile and a nod. “That you do.”

“It’s also just theoretical that you living here will endanger me. Someone might be after the head of Q branch as well.”

“Possibly.”

And they had taken their time to try out living together like this without ever making a conscious decision to do so.

It had started with Bond drifting over to Q’s flat now and then.

Then he had stayed longer and longer, had come after missions, had been there until the next. He had rarely visited his rental place. MI6 hadn’t bought him his own, nor had Bond thought about buying one either.

It had just happened.

And now Bond had thrown out everything that had still been in storage, sold off to interested parties over the past months, one by one. Storage was cleared. The rented flat was gone.

It changed nothing for them.

They had been living together for almost a year now.

Somehow it worked.

And it would continue doing so.

 

* * *

 

It was mandatory for Double-Ohs who had been either MIA in the field or laid off due to medical reasons to go through another performance evaluation. Since Bond qualified for both the medical reasons and being MIA, M insisted that he run the course.

Bond just looked blandly at him, not a single emotion in his face, then gave his superior a brief nod.

“Sir.”

And with that he was gone.

M sighed.

 

* * *

 

Evaluation was not a problem. James Bond was in perfect shape. He ran his miles, he did push-ups, crunches, pull-ups and let them take blood. The shooting range was no problem either. He hit the target with a perfect score, even when they moved it back past the normal distance, and he smirked a little.

008 was in the changing room, fresh out of the showers.

“Congrats,” he only said. “No one’s placing any bets anymore.” He grinned.

Bond stripped off his grimy sweats. “Too bad. The odds were interesting.”

“I’ll say.”

Nothing else was spoken, though Bond felt the scrutiny he was under from his fellow Double-Oh. They were professionals enough not to pry, especially when it came to Bond. By now his age-loss was no longer so visible. It was as if his body had tried to rectify its error to a degree. It was nothing that couldn’t be blamed on a good, long vacation.

Right.

Bond almost laughed at that and he knew Q had been highly amused.

James wondered if there would be any bets on that.

 

* * *

 

Q was back at his work desk as if he had never been gone. Charles Barker handed over the duties as the head of Q branch with a rather relieved look and briefed him on everything that had happened. Q had already checked his emails and had browsed MI6’s servers for what had been happening while he was gone.

Thankfully, not too many explosions.

He logged in, ran over the list of projects, ignoring the curious looks from his underlings, and made his own list of what he could work on today.

 

 

007 strolled into Q branch around lunch time, carrying take-out from Italo.

Q looked up, caught more of his underlings looking, openly gaping and staring, and some got elbowed by their colleagues. Sharp whispers floated through Q branch.

Bond ignored them. He was very good at that. Dressed in a light gray suit that was tailored to his figure, a white dress shirt and black leather shoes, he looked amazing. Q had seen him in all states of dress and undress, and he still felt that curl of warmth again.

Not that he showed it. He played it professional and distant, as always.

And Bond came up to his desk, that tiny curl of a smile tugging at his lips. He placed the food on Q’s desk.

“With compliments of 004.” He raised an eyebrow.

Q mimicked it. “I haven’t heard of any new assignments, 007.”

“Bringing you lunch.”

“Well, mission accomplished.”

“I didn’t know 004 decided to feed you. Anything I need to know?”

“No, not exactly.”

The blue eyes were cool, shielded, but the smile grew more private. Q turned back to his coding and finished with a few more key strokes.

Bond grabbed a pizza box and a set of plastic cutlery, then walked over to the couch. His couch. A piece of furniture no one dared to move or use themselves. He settled down, feet up, stretched out in a very delightful posture, and opened his box.

Q checked his own meal and found spaghetti with meatballs. He pulled a chair up and twirled a fork into the spaghetti.

Lunch was a quiet affair, though nice. Q kept an eye on his screens, but nothing happened. Bond’s eyes ran through the room, alert, taking in everyone and everything. Sometimes he would glance at Q and Q would shoot him a neutral look.

 

 

Bond disappeared just after lunch and Q didn’t see him for the rest of his day. He kept half an eye on the internal mails and found a flurry of activity about Bond’s so-called new and improved looks and his brief stint in Q branch.

He sighed.

Like a bunch of school children. No, worse. Kindergarten. Grown men and women gossiping like children.

There were speculations, some rather ludicrous like Bond having cosmetic surgery – Q had to almost laugh out loud at that – or a very good weekend spa getaway. As if James would be caught dead in a full facial nutrition mask. Q hid his amusement behind his mug. Dear god, the very image that called up!

Some commented that Q was good for Bond, which showed in his more rested appearance. Well, no argument from the quartermaster in question. He knew he was good for the Double-Oh. One of his own people told them to just shut up and let them be. Everyone knew they were an item and if it had Bond look less tired and exhausted, more alive and alert, the better for MI6.

Q took note. Loyal underlings were precious. Those who didn’t spend their time gossiping about the head of Q branch and the most dangerous of the Double-Ohs were also rare.

Well, let them talk, he decided. He didn’t care about it one way or another, and he was too busy with his schedule.

 

*

 

He left almost at a normal time, just after seven. It came as no surprise that Bond was already at the flat, though the sandwich dinner was.

Well, in a way.

James Bond could make a decent meal. Q grinned as he dropped his bag and hung up his jacket.

“What’s for dinner, honey?”

Bond shot him a cold look that could probably kill lesser men. He tossed a pack of crisps at him and Q caught them deftly. His partner carried two beers and the sandwiches, then plopped down on the couch and kicked up his feet. Q joined him and grabbed a sandwich.

“So, how’s the grapevine?” Bond asked amiably, opening a beer.

“Quite active.”

It got Q a smirk. “Anything interesting?”

“Aside from quite explicit fantasies about you and your body and your performance in bed? Nope. And that’s an old hat anyway.”

Bond’s grin was insufferably smug. Q refused to share the crisps with him for that.

“Jealous, quartermaster?”

“Hardly, Mr. Bond.”

Bond slid deeper into the couch, looking relaxed and completely at home and so far from the smooth, suave Double-Oh agent who could kill without conscience, without remorse, without questioning the order. Q held out the bag and Bond grabbed a handful of crisps, blue eyes alight with a warm smile.

In a way, nothing had changed, but still so much was different. So many little things. Q pushed it all away. He didn’t care at all. James was with him, whole and healthy and very much alive.

That was what counted.

And nothing else mattered.

 

fin!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sympathy for the Hellhound (and the Broken Winged Bird)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6764263) by [RyuuzaKochou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyuuzaKochou/pseuds/RyuuzaKochou)




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